


Hopeless

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (More like murder), Alternate Universe - Slavery, But trust me you won't mind it, Discussion of Abortion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magnussen is EVIL, Minor Character Death, Misgendering, Rape Recovery, Sexual Slavery, Trans Character, and a lot of angst, and there's nothing explicit, angst with happy ending, any tags you feel should be added, but it'll be referenced/implied several times during the fic, ending turned more hopeful than happy, let me know, lots and lots of hurt, mind the archive warnings, none of it takes place between John and Sherlock, not explicit either, or not much?, rating is for the subjects, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:22:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 45,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8636881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: Love is hopeless when you’re not free.And yet-Hope dies last, doesn’t it?





	1. No hope

**Author's Note:**

> So… this. I don’t know where this came from, since it’s far too dark for my usual works. I’ve toed the line of dubcon and noncon before, but this… this definitely goes over the line. And while there’s NOTHING explicit, it’ll be implied and referenced several times during the fic. As for the underage… well. Same warning, really. I’m still trying to work out how the timeline is going to go, because I’m not that comfortable with the subject but… here’s the thing: I have no clue where the inspiration came from (the whole idea came to me in a dream and it just made me feel so much, you know? It’s… weird, probably, but I really wanted to write it down), and well, it’s far away from my usual type of story but… yeah.  
> That being said, I should also let you know I’m a firm believer of happy endings. Too much Disney growing up, probably, but as much as I love writing angsty stuff, I prefer HAPPY ENDINGS. Or at least hopeful ones.  
> Last, but not least. I have no clue why I went with Trans Sherlock. I really don’t. As I said, the idea came to me in a dream and that’s exactly how it came so… I don’t feel like fighting the inspiration. Still… it’s a subject that makes me nervous to write. It’s not the first time I write a trans character and I did enjoy working on my previous works but- well, neither dealt with such dark subjects and so I’m very nervous of how I’ll be handling it.  
> Please, if there’s some warning you think I’m missing, if there’s anything you’re worried about, if you have any concerns with something specific, if you think there’s something that I should address at any point of the story, LET ME KNOW. This is all new for me, but that’s really no excuse to mess it up or upset someone. So I appreciate all the help and pointers I can get.  
> That being said… on with the story! Enjoy?

The door gets thrown open abruptly, startling John out of his restless slumber. Used as he is to be woken up at odd hours, he immediately sits up, reaching for his medical bag, ready to leave right away.

Mrs. Hudson stands at the doorway, eyes bloodshot, her skin pale. John sighs sadly, shaking his head and standing up. “Who is it this time?” he questions gently, but tiredly.

The woman shakes her head once, guiding him towards the Master’s room. As they approach the bedroom John can hear clearly the soft whimpers and the sound of the Master's beating cane slashing the air and bruising skin.

John closes his eyes, willing himself not to interfere. Having done it before, he knows he'll only make it worse both for himself and for whoever’s the victim of the Master's anger, but every instinct in his body is urging him to _do_ something, to help _somehow-_

The beating finally stops and the door gets thrown open. Mrs. Hudson hurries inside and scurries out just as quickly, pulling along a girl with her. John carries the poor thing once they're out, careful not to hurt her even worse. The girl’s eyes flutter open, revealing the most breathtaking eyes John has ever seen, but he quickly berates himself for getting distracted by silly details.

The girl is new, that much he knows now. He would remember those eyes, if nothing else and besides, he's quite familiar with all the other slaves of the household. Particularly with the females, since those are the ones that are usually burdened with the worst of the Master's moods.

They finally make it back to the slaves’ quarters, to the small room John has claimed as a healing room. With Mrs. Hudson’s help, he undresses the girl and starts examining her bruises. She's very thin, her skin tone almost unhealthily pale. Her long dark hair looks well cared for and her hands are perfectly smooth and without any roughness. She wasn't born a slave, that much is clear and she hasn't been one for long, for there's no sign she has endured any hard treatment before.

How did she end up in Lord Magnussen’s hands, then?

It doesn't matter right now, does it? For now all he cares about is seeing to the girl's health, for it's clear the Master had no consideration for her youth or her evident nicer upbringing. Her back and sides are covered with dark bruises that are undoubtedly causing her pain, judging by her soft whimpers, despite her being mostly unconscious. The Master doesn't favor whips, for he dislikes scarring his property, but he has no issue in using a beating cane, since it leaves no visible lasting damage.

He's careful not to jostle her too much, but he can't help the uncomfortableness much. He applies salve to the worst of the bruises and makes her drink a light sedative, that puts her under a deeper slumber.

Mrs. Hudson watches the proceedings with avid interest, evidently worried for the younger woman. Once John is done, she helps him cover her with a light blanket and leaves, presumably to get more supplies. Not that John thinks there’s much more they can do for the poor thing, but he doesn’t protest, welcoming the quiet of the room once the older woman has left.

His patient’s breathing is regular, if a bit slower than normal, but he thinks there was no damage to the lungs. There’s no way to tell for sure if there’s any internal bleeding; it wouldn’t be the first time the Master got carried away with the punishment, although it’s been awhile since they had someone dying of internal bleeding. With a sigh, John leans against the wall, closing his eyes and willing himself not to get worked up.

Mrs. Hudson returns a few minutes later and gently leads John out of the room, urging him to rest. The man sighs, but obeys, knowing it’s useless to argue with Mrs. Hudson. Besides, there’s nothing more that can be done for the girl.

Nothing to do but hope for the best.

* * *

 

John hadn’t been born a slave and that’s why the other slaves at the household tell him he’s far too compassionate. Being raised surrounded by pain and fear does a lot to quell any compassion one might feel, or so he’s been told and he sometimes wonder if that’s a blessing or a curse.

His patient regards him with frightened eyes, recoiling when he attempts to touch her. Her fair skin has bruised badly, but she seems to be doing alright, all things considered. Mrs. Hudson tries to coax her to let him check on her injuries, but it soon becomes obvious she’s not quite familiar with the language and her fear isn’t helping one bit. It takes a long while, but eventually she gives up on trying to escape them, probably figuring she’s in no state to run away anyway.

She’s but a child, really. John is baffled at how the Master can even consider bedding her, for that was obviously his intention last night, judging by the finger marks on her hips and thighs. She probably put up a fight too, considering the light bruises on her knuckles, not to mention the bruise on the Master’s cheek this morning at breakfast. John was more than a little impressed and awed, to be honest, although the girl certainly paid a handsome price for daring to defend herself.

She lets him look at her wounds and apply yet more salve, but refuses to drink the sedative. John isn’t inclined to force her and frighten her even more, although he’s concerned. There’s no telling what might happen later and so it’s likely a mild painkiller would help her to bear with it somewhat.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to drink it,” he tells her slowly. “But it’d make you feel better.”

She shakes her head firmly, her lips pressed in a tight line. “Sedative,” she says, “sleepy. No good.”

Ah, she’s scared of what might happen to her if she falls asleep. John’s heart aches for her, especially because she has good reason to fear. “If you put up a fight again, he’ll hurt you even more,” he explains and he can see the tears in the corners of her eyes, although she attempts to keep her face blank. “I- I know it’s not right and you shouldn’t- you shouldn’t have to-” he sighs, looking away. There’s nothing he can say that might help her or make her feel better, so there’s really no point, but- “God, you’re but a girl, not even a teen-”

“Boy,” she corrects him quietly and John frowns. She squares her shoulders, looking determined, as if daring him to contradict her and he suddenly understands.

He has heard of such things happening, of course, and it’s not like it matters given their circumstances, but any small comfort he can provide- “Right, I’m sorry. I- I’m sorry.”

The younger boy nods tightly, evidently a bit wary still. John sighs, hating there’s no way he can help at all. “What’s your name?” he asks softly, wishing to change the subject, thinking it might be for the best to distract him from what might come later.

“Sherlock,” the other replies and gestures for him to offer his own name. John smiles gently, offering his hand to shake.

“John,” he answers simply, unsure of what else he can say. “I work in the kitchens normally, so if you need something- or you can ask Mrs. Hudson for me. She’s the slaves’ master, so she mostly always knows where we are and what we’re doing.”

Sherlock nods hesitantly, nervous. John stands up, figuring it’s time for him to return to his usual duties. Technically, he shouldn’t be seeing to his companion’s injuries, but he has never been able to look the other way when someone is hurting and while his training in medicine isn’t much and a bit rudimentary-

He prefers to do as much as he can to help.

“I’ll see you later, Sherlock,” he offers him a small smile that the other attempts to return without much success. John’s heart clenches once more and he forces himself to look away and hurry out of the room. He can’t stay here forever, no matter how much he wishes to comfort the boy.

There’s really nothing else for him to do.

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson is a kind woman, if a bit strict. Her husband used to be the slaves’ master and he wasn’t a nice or compassionate man, which is why John is a bit baffled they were married in the first place. When he died though, Mrs. Hudson had taken over his duties without a hitch, so ensuring her continued employment and leaving the slaves in the household under a more tender care.

Not that there’s much she can do though, except attempt to shield them from the worst of the Master’s temper and give them as much freedom as possible. It’s not much, not by far, but John is well aware things could be far much worse if she wasn’t around.

But all her pleading can not keep the Master away from Sherlock that night and so John isn’t one bit surprised when he gets woken up once more to tend to the poor thing. He’s badly bruised once more, but he keeps himself stoically quiet and still, letting John work. It’s not right and John wishes there was something he could do, but-

Well, no use on wishing.

Hope, it seems, is pretty useless in any case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> It’s… darker than my usual thing. I’m trying to be careful with the tags, but as I said at the beginning, if you have any specific concerns, let me know. I’m trying to handle this with as much sensibility as I can and to the best of my abilities, but any constructive criticism and suggestions will be greatly appreciated.  
> I’m actually quite inspired for this, so I might update quickly, but it’s also a bit… draining? so I might take some time between updates to write happier, sillier, more optimistic things.  
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought!


	2. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! As I said before, once inspiration hits me, it truly hits me ;) That being said, I can’t promise I’ll update this frequently, particularly considering next week I might actually be expected to work :p  
> Anyway… warnings from the previous chapter still apply.  
> Enjoy?

There are, as far as he can tell, 3 viable escape routes. Of course, he’s only been here for a day and a half and he’s been mostly confined to the Master’s bedroom and what passes as the healing room, so he really hasn’t had the chance to explore his surroundings, but those 3 options don’t seem bad.

Better than staying, in any case.

There aren’t any guards inside the house, so the only trouble will be scurrying between the ones at the main entrance or the ones at the back. The ones at the front are more likely to be distracted, not expecting someone to be as bold as to attempt to go through them. The change of guards is exactly at 7 o’clock, or so Sherlock supposes, since 2 days are really no basis to be making conjectures, but well… he’ll have to risk it.

But he’ll never make it on foot, so he’ll have to steal a horse. Safer than ask for help even if it presents yet another set of complications. The Master does have a stable, but Sherlock doesn’t think it would be particularly wise to stay at the house’s grounds for a long while. Going to town and looking there is his only option, but of course it all comes down to timing.

The real trouble is he doesn’t have a clue where to go from there. He’s fairly certain they were heading south before he lost consciousness the first time around, but he can’t tell for sure what happened afterwards. He can’t exactly risk traveling in the wrong direction; at this point, his only salvation would be to make it back to his brother before the Master sends someone looking for him. Magnussen seems the type of man that has many connections, some shadier than others and so if Sherlock is to make one wrong move-

He’ll end back here. And that’s simply not an acceptable outcome.

He supposes he could wait and see what happens. His brother is, after all, a man of many means too and if he’s looking for him, he’s bound to find him sooner rather than later. Of course Father might oppose to actually sending a search party, but-

Mycroft would see to that. He just would.

Although- well. Maybe his brother would think this is just another of his attempts to escape their home. Not that they ever worked before and Mycroft is smart enough to figure out he has been kidnapped this time around, but it might still slow down the search. Eventually though-

But he just can’t stomach another night like the previous one. Every inch of his body hurts in impossible ways and he’s not keen on repeating the experience, so he must escape tonight.

Yes, that’s his only option really.

* * *

 

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” John chides softly. “At this rate, I would be surprised if you make it past the first month.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Better than this,” he murmurs darkly and the other man looks at him sadly. He quickly turns his attention back to the bruises, ignoring the way Sherlock flinches as he applies more healing salve. For a long while, there’s no other sound but their combined breathing, the air tense between them.

“I understand,” John says finally, just as he's finishing his work. “But there are easier, less hurtful ways to go.”

And with that he’s gone, leaving Sherlock with only his dark thoughts for company.

* * *

 

His first attempt didn’t go as expected. Now he’s sporting yet more bruises and he suspects he might have an sprained wrist, but that’s not important. He’s getting out of here, even if that’s the last thing he does.

As far as he can tell, it’s been nearly a month since he was kidnapped. If Mycroft was looking for him, he would have already found him. The notion is not encouraging at all, but he has no time to get distracted by that.

Although in retrospective, he shouldn’t have made Father mad. That has never worked out well for him.

He hasn’t been given any extra duties and he’s still mostly confined to the Master’s bedroom (with short visits to the healing room), so he hasn’t had the chance to explore more options. He has seen some slaves coming and going from the house without any supervision, but he doubts he’ll be granted such “freedom” any time soon. He could attempt to gain such privilege, but it would require him to actually “behave” and there’s simply no way in hell that’s happening any time soon.

So, another attempt of escaping is in order.

He can only pray it’ll go better than last time.

* * *

 

“You truly have a death wish,” John murmurs, his gaze sad and pitying. “Couldn’t you at least wait until your wrist had healed? You can’t actually expect to go very far when you’re so hurt.”

Sherlock shrugs non committedly. “Maybe not,” he agrees softly. His grasp of the language has gotten better, but he still prefers not to speak much. It’s of no use, really.

John sighs, patting his shoulder awkwardly. “Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

Sherlock scowls as the other leaves the room.

As if.

* * *

 

Third time's a charm, isn’t that how the saying goes?

He’s getting better at ignoring the pain at night, but he’s still nowhere near resigned to his fate. He suspects that no matter how much time passes, he’ll never be.

As he lays awake on the small cot that has been assigned to him, he wonders why did he ever fought Father on the subject of his marriage. It would have been exactly the same, wouldn’t it? A man that didn’t care for him, nor understood or respected him, using his body for his selfish pleasure, leaving Sherlock hurting? But at least then he’d be free to come and go as he pleased and entertain himself with other, more interesting pursues. And there probably wouldn’t have been any beatings.

He’s fairly certain Father wouldn’t have allowed that.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. If he ever makes it back home, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be arguing with Father on the subject. Of course, even if he does make it back home, it’s likely the subject will never arise again; he’s been tainted, after all.

Is that why no one has come looking for him? Do they already know what has happened to him and figured it was of no use rescuing him?

But no. Even if Father is likely to think that, Mycroft would never allow it. Neither would Mummy for that matter.

Would they?

He can’t handle all this doubt. He _hates_ not knowing something. There’s no use on entertaining such thoughts, really. He needs to focus on his escape plan and pray that the third time is indeed a charm.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do otherwise.

* * *

 

The broken leg might be troublesome.

The infection and fever that follows are just the icing on the cake.

* * *

 

“You might get your death wish after all,” John murmurs darkly as he cleans the wound, applying disinfectant all around and making Sherlock hiss in pain. The fever makes everything look a bit blurry and he just wants to close his eyes and go to sleep, but he suspects that’s not really an option right now.

“Water,” Sherlock pleads and John sighs, before stopping his motions and handing him a glass of water. Sherlock closes his eyes, enjoying the coolness of the water and wondering if it’s been laced with some sedative.

“That was just plain insane,” John continues, his hands steady despite it all. “You’re lucky you didn’t break your skull. There’s nothing I could have done for you if that was the case.”

Sherlock hums in acknowledgment, not particularly caring. John sighs, inspecting his leg once he has finished cleaning the wound on his head. “As for this leg- it’s healing all wrong. I think I’m going to need to break it again, to realign the bone.”

“Might as well do it now,” Sherlock murmurs, “I’m too weak and tired to move.”

Again, the older man sighs, setting to do just that. Compared to how the rest of his body aches and throbs, the rearranging on his limb barely registers. John examines his handiwork for the longest time, obviously troubled. “Why did you attempt to keep going?”

Sherlock chuckles humorlessly. “Between dying out there and coming back here- it was really not a difficult decision.”

“I’ve already told you there are easier ways to go,” John says, sitting on the bed next to him, starting to bandage his leg. “If you’re that desperate-”

“I’m not suicidal,” Sherlock argues vehemently. “I just want to leave. And I have no qualms about going to any extremes necessary to achieve that goal.” He sighs, looking away. “I rather die trying to escape than spend the rest of my life wasting here.”

“But you don’t actually want to kill yourself.”

Sherlock smirks. “Crazy, ain’t it?”

“No,” John says softly. “Not at all.” He looks meditative for the longest time, not looking at Sherlock’s eyes. “I understand.”

Sherlock is curious about the older boy, to be honest. He wasn’t born a slave either, but he has no idea how he ended up in this situation. It has something to do with his family and his self sacrificing nature, he has figured out as much, but he can’t tell more than that.

Still, directly asking about it doesn’t seem appropriate and so he keeps his curiosity to himself.

“Thank you,” he whispers after a while and John turns to look at him curiously. “I do appreciate what you attempt to do.”

John smiles sadly, shaking his head. “I wish there was more I could do.” He places a hand over his knee, patting it awkwardly. “But as I’ve said before- if there’s anything you need and I can help somehow, let me know.”

Sherlock nods, appreciating the words even if they both know there’s very little John can actually do for him.

But hearing someone does care for him- well, for now that’s more than enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> I was originally planning on merrily skipping a few years ahead in time, but then I figured a little more of exposition was needed, otherwise I would end up dumping random information at random points and that wouldn’t have worked out at all.  
> As with the previous chapter, any particular concerns you have or any tags you think are needed, please let me know!  
> Thanks for reading and please let me know what you thought!


	3. No right answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, would you look at that? Here’s a new chapter! I’m really quite inspired, although I think I might be a little stuck with the following one…  
> But never mind that. Warnings still apply, but… enjoy?

John rubs his temples tiredly, his eyelids feeling far too heavy. Ever since Sherlock arrived at the household, he has spent far too many sleepless nights. He’ll give the boy that: he’s certainly determined once he has made up his mind.

And he understands, he really does. The situation isn’t quite as desperate for him and yet, he would love to get out of it too. Any of them, really. If not escaping slavehood completely, at least leaving Lord Magnussen’s service.

But Sherlock’s… attempts of escaping are as desperate as they’re suicidal. Even if the boy insists he isn’t suicidal, there’s really no other way to describe the crazy plans he comes up with.

He’s pretty smart, that much is true. That he has made it as far as he has managed is quite commendable and John can’t bring himself to attempt to convince him to stop, because he does see his point. It’s just that-

God, he’s going to get himself killed.

“Though night?” Molly asks gently, but still startling him due the fact that he’s falling asleep on his feet.

“A bit,” John agrees, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sherlock’s fever is still a bit worrisome.”

Molly hums in acknowledgement, continuing her way to the kitchen’s sink and depositing the bunch of plates she’s carrying with her there. “He made it to next town this time, didn’t sh- he?”

John smiles at her as the girl blushes furiously. Molly is a kindhearted soul and while she hasn’t actually met Sherlock, she has listened to what John has told her about him. “Yeah. With a broken leg.”

“That girl is asking for all sort of trouble,” Sally pips in, starting to wash the dishes Molly has just brought. “In all honesty, you should just let her… you know…” she sighs, pushing her hair away from her face. “God knows it’s not going to get any better.”

John’s lips press in a tight line, but he knows better than to argue with Sally. There’s just no winning with her. “You’re right, of course, but I can’t- it wouldn’t be-”

“Right?” Sally questions sarcastically. “Oh John, you’re so… moral, sometimes.”

The boy sighs, forcing himself to pay attention to the food he’s preparing. There’s nothing he can say to that, really. Sally is right, the most merciful thing to do would be let Sherlock die, but he has already told him he’s not suicidal, not exactly and so- well, it wouldn’t be right of him to go making decisions on his behalf.

“The Master might lost interest in him eventually,” Molly says after a while and Sally makes a disbelieving sound. While it’s a possibility, the chances are very slim. The Master has never shown this amount of interest in any of his slaves and there’s also the fact that he hasn’t given Sherlock any other duties, just keeping him locked in his rooms, so…

“It might be horrible of me to say it,” Sally murmurs, her eyes fixed on the dishes. “But I rather hope he doesn’t.”

John closes his eyes and Molly makes a small pained but agreeing sound. Both women know exactly what Sherlock is going through and while it might be horrible, he does understand the relief they must be feeling, even if it’s at someone else’s expense.

The situation is just too fucked up, really.

* * *

 

“Antibiotics.”

John keeps his head down, careful to keep himself still and not betray his nervousness. He can feel the Master’s eyes fixed on him, as if reading into his very own soul and although the sensation is both unsettling and uncomfortable, he bears with it the best he can. “And a cast,” he adds softly, his voice steady and audible despite it all.

There’s a hum from the other man and John bites on his lip harshly to keep himself from saying something he’ll come to regret. The silence stretches for far too long and so John dares to look up briefly.

The Master is leaning on his seat, hands intertwined beneath his chin, his expression thoughtful. “It serves her well for attempting to escape,” the older man says finally, his attention back at John. The boy hurries to drop his eyes once more, his nails digging into his palms in a desperate attempt to keep himself under control.

“Of course, Master,” John says softly, hating himself for saying such horrid thing. “But a cast would accelerate the healing and without any proper care, it’ll never heal fully. With all due respect, I doubt you would want a lame slave, Master.”

Magnussen hums and John pushes down his indignation. “You do have a fair point,” the Master says slowly. “I do hate damaged goods.”

John closes his eyes, steadying himself for the even more horrid thing he must say if he wants to ensure Sherlock lives. “As for the antibiotics, they’d help to cure the fever once and for all. The sooner she’s healed, the sooner she’ll be returned to her duties, Master.”

He hates it all: the terrible implications of his words and the bitter taste the wrong pronoun leaves on his mouth. He did promise himself he would attempt to provide any bit of comfort he could and he knows Sherlock doesn’t like to be called a _she_ but given the circumstances-

He thinks of Sally's words once more. Should he just let the poor thing die after all?

“Ah,” Magnussen says, the dark smile spreading across his features making John feel like something dead is crawling over his back. “Now that’s a good reason!” he exclaims merrily and John’s nails dig even deeper into his palms as he forces himself to keep breathing and not to vomit. “You might ask Mrs. Hudson for the money for the supplies,” he adds and John bows low, relieved to both have acquired the things he needs and also to be able to leave the other man’s presence. “I always knew my little investment on your family would pay off. You’re a smart one, John.”

John bows his head once more, his expression carefully blank and hurries out of the room.

God, what a nightmare.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s sleep is restless, the fever escalating at odd hours. John sits at his side dutifully, trying to fight off his own tiredness. They had a short visit from the Master earlier and that has John more than a bit troubled; he had hoped the antibiotics would work quickly and they have, but if the fever finally breaks, he knows Sherlock will be sent immediately back to the Master’s chambers and that-

He looks at the other boy’s leg, now placed on an actual cast. If he’s not careful with it, all his hard work will be for nothing. And Sherlock won’t be careful with it, he won’t allow it to heal well if he keeps on fighting the Master.

God, he’s so torn. Should he have simply let the other boy die? But he had said- he doesn’t think- death can’t be the solution, can it?

But truly, what other option is there?

He turns to look at Sherlock’s face once more. It’s not contorted in pain for once and so John is hopeful of the effects the antibiotics are having on him. During the worst points of the fever the younger boy kept calling for someone and John wonders about his family. What happened to him, how did he end up a slave? It seems so horrible to think that his family sold him to Magnussen and yet, John knows that’s the most likely explanation.

He thinks of his own family and his heart constricts in his chest. He has seen Harry in town and she looks well, if a bit tired. He thinks she’s seeing someone and he’s oh-so-very-glad his baby sister got to live without the threat of their debt to Magnussen constantly hanging over her head but-

No use on thinking about that, really. Particularly not now.

Sherlock lets out a soft pained noise and John runs his fingers across his curls, drenched in sweat, humming softly, lulling the other man to sleep. He does look slightly better, but the fever has yet to break.

He’s not sure of what’s better really: for him to carry on being sick or for him to recover.

Both outcomes are full of downsides.

* * *

 

“How are you feeling?”

In lieu of an answer, Sherlock groans. John’s lips quirk upwards as the boy dramatically rolls onto his other side, his back at John. The fever has finally broken and for that, John is quite thankful.

Of course his patient might not completely share his view. The thought sobers him up immediately and he sighs, bringing his companion a glass of water and offering it as a proverbial olive branch. “Do you think you can stomach some food?” he asks gently, once he coaxes Sherlock into facing him and drinking the water.

The younger man shakes his head, making a face. “I’m not even sure I can keep the water down,” he murmurs, his nose scrunching in distaste. “I’m not hungry, anyway.”

John nods, biting his lip. He knows he needs to eat, but he’s not about to force him. He wonders for how long he can keep Sherlock’s recovery a secret and promptly answers himself that not for long. The house’s walls are full of eyes and ears and considering the dark mood the Master has been in lately-

No one would be eager to deny him something that might take his frustrations away.

He lets Sherlock lay down once more, telling him to sleep. With any luck he can avoid sending the boy back to the Master’s chambers for a couple of days, although he finds that doubtful. He eyes the leg still on the cast and pursues him lips, wondering what can be done about that.

The answer, sadly, is nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Oddly enough, Sherlock doesn’t come back to him in a couple of weeks and when he does, it’s only to get his cast taken off. The leg has healed nicely enough, which is surprising too and there are no news bruises to be accounted for.

John doesn’t comment, simply skimming his fingers over the leg bone, looking for anything that might cause trouble later. Sherlock observes him in silence, not moving one inch. “So, what’s the prognosis, doctor?” he asks after a while and John’s head snaps up, having had gotten lost in his thoughts. Sherlock smirks briefly, before dropping his eyes to his leg. “It healed well, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” John answers simply, frowning a bit. “What-” he bits his lip, unsure of what he wants to ask and Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes.

“I figured it wouldn’t do to jostle it too much,” he murmurs. “With a lame leg, my chances of ever escaping would drop dramatically.”

John’s heart aches as he sees the logic in Sherlock’s behavior. The boy is smart, no doubt, and he learned his lesson with the sprained wrist, not letting his desperation once more get the better of him. “It has healed well,” John agrees. “There might be some lingering pain when the temperature drops or if you over exercise yourself, but you should be fine.”

Sherlock nods solemnly. “Good.”

John has to look away, willing himself to keep calm.

No. It’s no good at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> I had promised myself I would end November with no WIPs. Of course, that’s not happening any more because there’s no way in hell I’ll finish this one by tomorrow, but I’m hopeful of the other two. When I’ll be posting is an entirely different matter, but well…  
> I’m enjoying working on this, although I fear I might need to do a little more research. I’ve also noticed there are a couple of things I have yet to clarify and now I’m worried when I’m going to mention them without it seeming like an “info dump”. Also, I'm not sure about the chapter's lenght... Anything you think I should mention, or any concerns you have, please let me know. I think it’s going well, but the themes are quite… difficult and well, I worry much.  
> Thanks for reading!


	4. No fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I did remember the bit I was supposed to research before I started writing this one… but it refused to go as I planned. This one is sad and angsty and the ending is a little… well. The implications aren’t pretty, but they’re just that: implications. Still, same warnings apply.  
> Also, you really shouldn’t get used to these steady updates. My inspiration is anything but constant :P  
> So… enjoy?

The morning cold does his leg no favours, but Sherlock can’t bring himself to care much. It’s nice to be outside, just breathing the pure air, watching the snowflakes fall. Back home the weather was too mild for it to snow and so he’s quite intrigued by the spectacle, his natural curiosity urging him to go out and see it up close.

He’s well aware of the pair of eyes on his back, the guards wary due his previous attempts of escaping. He has “earned” the freedom of roaming around the house’s grounds, but the guards still keep a close eye on him, not wanting to provoke Magnussen’s ire.

He sighs, willing himself to ignore the surveillance and enjoy the falling snow. It hasn’t been a year since he was brought here, but any urge he had to escape has long disappeared; his situation hasn’t gotten any better, but he can’t find within himself the will to keep on fighting.

Not when he actually knows his family doesn’t care one bit about his situation. Now he knows that even if he does manage to make it out of Magnussen’s clutches, he has nowhere to go.

It’s a depressing thought and so he hurries to shake it away. He’s not resigned to his fate, he doesn’t think, but he certainly isn’t trying to escape anymore.

It’s no use after all.

 

* * *

 

He runs his fingers across the violin’s strings, enjoying the familiar presence of the instrument. Daddy had taught him to play it, gifting it to him when he was 5. He runs his fingers over the familiar dents, smiling to himself as he remembers how every little dent was made.

Back home he had carefully avoided thinking of his actual father, the memory hurting too much. Mummy didn’t speak of him either, probably because she knew it would irritate her new husband. Why she even remarried in the first place is still a bit of a mystery to Sherlock, although he supposes it has something to do with pesky traditions. In a way, he’s thankful he has avoided such destiny, although of course his circumstances aren’t better.

Now, however, he finds himself thinking of his dad frequently. He wonders if he would have been more understanding of his… situation. Mycroft and Mummy had never really understood him, although they had always given him the impression they were supportive. Father of course, had been completely disapproving and so he was not quite surprised to learn he had refused to pay the ransom. Still, his brother’s and mother’s betrayal stings more than what he’s willing to admit.

He starts playing, to keep himself from crying. His will to fight had died the day he had come back from the healing room to find his violin lying on top of his cot. After a close examination that had told him that yes, that was indeed his very own instrument, he had found himself crying for the first time since he was taken. Oh, he had screamed and whimpered due the brutality of the treatment he had received, but he had carefully kept himself from actually crying, his pride urging him to resist such display of emotions. But after that-

He had learned the rest of the story that very night, Magnussen taking great pleasure on letting him know just how little his family cared about what happened to him. Although the temptation to cry that night too had been strong, he had kept himself stoically quiet. Knowing there was no one waiting for him out there had robbed him of what little hope he still had and so he had, somewhat, come to terms with his situation.

To continue fighting would only get him hurt further. On the other hand, if he kept his head down and _accepted_ his new situation, he might earn himself some few liberties. It wasn’t ideal, of course and under other circumstances he might not have bend, but-

He was just so tired.

And without hope- what’s the use in fighting?

 

* * *

 

The days blend together, nothing but the slow change of seasons signaling the pass of time. His mornings are endlessly boring, with nothing for him to do but sit outside, read and play his violin. His nights are filled with pain and fear, although he’s getting quite good at ignoring both.

The other slaves avoid him when he walks around the house and he’s made no effort to befriend anyone, although a couple of them are reasonably polite if distant with him. Mrs. Hudson has encouraged him to make _friends,_ citing it might make his stay more bearable, having someone to talk to. Sherlock finds the notion ridiculous and has said as much, making the woman smile at him sadly, but she keeps on insisting.

He doesn’t want the situation to be _bearable._ He wants-

Well, it doesn’t matter what he wants, does it?

 

* * *

 

Loneliness might drive people mad, but Sherlock is used to being alone. Children never wanted to play with him and his brother was too old and too serious to spend much time running around with him.

Alone is what he has. It has always been this way and that’s never going to change.

His personality doesn’t help, he knows. He’s too brash and has no filter, not caring one bit about how his words might affect people. He has no patience for pretense or lies and while learning to keep his mouth shut would have saved him from a lot of trouble, he could never bring himself to be dishonest.

Here, he simply has chosen not to speak much. He knows his bluntness won’t be appreciated, nor his keen perception of the going ons of the house, and so it’s better to keep quiet.

So he sits quietly, where he knows he won’t get into someone’s way, neither will he be noticed and watches. It gives him something to do, if nothing else and it gives him insight of the lives and works of the people of the household. It might prove useful someday, if he ever decides to attempt another escape or-

Well. There’s no way of telling what might happen in the future, is there?

He’s well aware his gaze tends to linger on a certain someone a little too often, but he supposes it’s rather inevitable. That he has become a bit infatuated with John seems rather natural, considering the other boy has been the only person to show him any real tenderness (besides Mrs. Hudson that is), not to mention that he's the only one he’s actually spent time with. There’s no denying he’s handsome too and while his circumstances aren’t anywhere remotely conductive for romance, he can’t stop himself from noticing the other.

It doesn’t matter, anyway.

Mrs. Hudson’s _advice_ rings in his ears though. Having a friend is a fanciful thought and, for the most part, he can’t say he’s really interested. But as he finds himself more and more… intrigued by the older boy, he can’t help to wonder.

His current situation is simply hellish and there’s no way around it. All the _friends_ in the world won’t make it any more tolerable. But maybe- maybe-

God, what’s the point anyway?

It’s not like John would want to be his friend anyway.

 

* * *

 

He looks at his reflection on the mirror and makes a face, annoyed at his appearance. His hair is long once more and has been pulled into some elegant updo that he hates. The pretty dress he’s wearing clings to his body in uncomfortable ways, dragging attention to his waist and nearly non existent breasts. The heavy makeup makes him feel like a clown, big red false grin included. He scowls, wondering what would happen if he simply refused to leave the room looking like this and weighs his options.

“It’s not that bad,” Molly points out gently, patting his arm awkwardly. “You look actually quite nice.”

It’s meant to be a compliment and so Sherlock forces himself not to snap at the poor girl. She’s obviously as uncomfortable with this as he is, although he suspects that for different reasons. He glares some more at his reflection, considering the merits of pretending to be sick.

He eyes his unbruised arms and thinks better of it. It’s been awhile since he has sported any visual marks of the treatment he receives and he’s really not eager to be physically hurt again. It’s not- ideal, of course, but well… it’s better than the alternative.

He just- he just wishes he understood what his role is. At the beginning it had been pretty evident he was a piece of property, something to be used and not thought about the rest of the time. Nowadays… nowadays it’s a bit weird.

He feels part treasured pet/ part trophy/ part plaything. It’s oddly disconcerting, this not really knowing _what_ he is, not knowing what’s expected and what isn’t. Magnussen’s changing moods always leave his head spinning, filled with uncertainty. He treats him differently at any given moment, with no pattern that he can discern. There are days when he’ll treat him almost _nicely_ and there are days when he’ll ignore him (the best ones, in Sherlock’s opinion) and there are days…

Well. He’d rather not think of those.

Tonight though… tonight the Master is entertaining some guests and Sherlock is expected to- well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? What is he supposed to do tonight? Just sit there and look pretty?

Judging by the dress and the makeup, he thinks that might be it.

There are, of course, other possibilities. But the one that makes Sherlock quiver with fright and that almost has him attempting yet another escape- it mostly seems unlikely. Magnussen is, after all, very possessive.

But-

There’s a soft knock on the door and Sherlock closes his eyes, bracing himself for whatever might come. Mrs. Hudson peeks in and smiles at him a bit sadly, gesturing for him to come with her. He sends one last nervous look in Molly’s direction but the girl is carefully avoiding his eyes, which of course just helps to fuel his fears.

He squares his shoulders and keeps his head high, his face perfectly blank.

If he has learned anything is that showing fear will never do.

 

* * *

 

All things considered, the night went as well as it could.

It could have been worse. For a little while, he had been convinced it would be worse. But it had- in the end, he-

He’s fine and that’s what matters.

Something that feels like a coat is placed on his shoulders, startling him. He looks upwards, ready to flee if necessary, only to find John standing behind him, looking troubled. For a beat neither says anything and then Sherlock looks away, wrapping the coat tighter around him.

“I thought you might have ran away once more,” the blond boy says after a beat, slowly taking a seat next to him. Sherlock shrugs, hugging his knees close. “But no, you were only attempting to freeze to death.”

Sherlock huffs, “I couldn’t stand it inside.”

John nods, thoughtful. “Couldn’t you grab something to cover yourself with? Or keep the dress on, at least? Not that it looks very warm, but-”

“Why do you care?” Sherlock snaps angrily, regretting his words almost immediately. He must admit to himself he’s scared and craving comfort and yet, he can’t bring himself to-

John doesn’t answer, instead placing a hand on his back and rubbing it up and down his spine. It’s an oddly comforting gesture, Sherlock finds, and he can feel himself slowly relaxing, if a bit unwillingly. “I just- I couldn’t keep that thing on. It felt- _wrong. Dirty._ ” His whole body feels that way, if he’s honest with himself, but the freezing night air had made him feel better. Almost as good as a nice bath would have and with the plus of not needing to be inside the house right now.

There are no other words coming from his companion and Sherlock feels strangely relieved. He doesn’t want (or need) anyone’s pity and so he’s thankful for the silence. There are, after all, no words that could make things better.

A rush of cold air has him shivering and John sighs. “Should I bring you a duvet? Or some clothes at least?”

Sherlock considers this, looking up at the night sky. The truth is he doesn’t want to go into the house any time soon, but his leg is protesting against the cold and he is tired. “Do you think- do you think I could stay at the healing room tonight?”

John sighs once more, standing up and offering his hand to Sherlock. “Come on, we’ll stay at the kitchen. If someone asks, I’ll tell them you were nearly freezing when I found you and needed to warm up. It’s not a lie, after all.”

Sherlock’s lips curve upwards briefly. “And if the Master says something?”

John shrugs non committedly. “I think he’s too drunk to notice, honestly.”

Yeah, Sherlock thinks that to. Still, he should probably sneak back into the room at dawn to avoid any further trouble. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he stands up.

John’s thumb brushes his cheek and that’s when he notices a few tears have managed to escape. He blushes, but his companion doesn’t comment, simply securing the coat more tightly around his shoulders and leaning down to pick up his discarded dress, which Sherlock’s eyes with distaste.

He supposes it’s a nice enough dress and it’s certainly finely made, but-

“Should I have this burn?” John questions lightly and Sherlock can’t help the slight smirk that comes unbidden to his lips.

“It wouldn’t be missed,” he says, feeling curiously vindictive against the piece of fabric. “The kitchen’s fire probably needs a little stoking, doesn’t it?”

In lieu of an answer, John simply smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh. I’m not sure about that last scene. Feels a bit too… light hearted, perhaps? 
> 
>  
> 
> The last part might be a little vague, but you still probably have an idea of what happened. I did say I wouldn’t be writing anything particularly explicit so… yeah. I think it works, but let me know your opinion?
> 
>  
> 
> I like the beginning. I think it gives us perspective of the going ons inside Sherlock’s head and so it would make sense later that he’s not attempting to escape anymore. I don’t think any injury would have made him   
>  _  
>  lay down   
>  _  
>  so to speak, but with this bit of information… well.
> 
>  
> 
> Keep in mind we don’t have the full real story, though!
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter wasn’t supposed to go as it went. The whole party thing was meant to happen   
>  _  
>  so much later   
>  _  
>  and things weren’t going to end up as they did and… well. Also, the actual plot of this chapter is refusing to happen (has refused to since chapter 2 actually). I’m wondering if I should just drop it. But, since I technically don’t have any other plans for the following chapter… maybe if I skip a few years...
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, decisions, decisions…
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, please let me know what you thought?
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
>  


	5. Difficult decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! The bit of plot I meant to write since forever has finally allowed itself to be written, but I’m not completely sure I like it…Why do things never work out as I intended? Then again, that bit of plot was supposed to run from Sherlock’s POV...  
> Well, I suppose that's all. I should also say warnings still apply.  
> Also, warning for abortion discussion. Sort of? It's... implied once more?  
> Enjoy?

The marketplace is filled with people, making walking a near impossible task. Considering the amount of stuff John is carrying, it’s even more of a challenge and so can’t exactly be blamed for losing sight of his “charge”.

Although, technically, Sherlock isn’t his charge since nobody actually asked him to keep an eye on him (although he supposes it was implied). The younger man asked to come along and John had agreed, knowing he would sulk and pout for the rest of the day if he didn’t. Besides, there are very few occasions in which Sherlock is actually allowed out of the house and into town, so he wasn’t about to take that chance away from him.

Now that he can’t find him though-

He can’t deny he’s worried. If the teen has decided to make another escape attempt (unlikely, since he hasn’t made one in nearly a year, but-) and succeeded, John will be in deep trouble. Still, if Sherlock does manage to escape this time-

Well, he wouldn’t hold it against him.

He sighs, putting his bags down and resting his back against the wall. It’s far too warm to be outside, he thinks, and he really should be heading back into the house, but he can’t do that without Sherlock. He rubs his temples tiredly, weightening his options.

In the end, he figures he’ll take another look around the market and hope for the best.

It’s all he can do, really.

* * *

 

“There you are!” he exclaims, feeling relieved and guilty about it. Sherlock simply arches an eyebrow curiously, but quickly turns his attention back to whatever he was observing before John  _ rudely _ interrupted him.

John frowns, coming to stand next to the younger boy. He seems quite intrigued by whatever he’s watching and John blushes brightly once he notices what’s going on. “Sherlock!”

“They’re doing it in the middle of the street,” the other protests calmly. “I would hardly call my staring indecent.”

John rolls his eyes, dropping his bags next to his feet. “Technically, they’re not in the middle of the street. Also, that’s- people don’t- people don’t usually stare, even if people are doing it in the middle of the street. It’s- private.”

“It’s just kissing,” Sherlock argues calmly. “Granted, very enthusiastic kissing but nothing scandalous.” He smirks confidently, but his eyes betray his actual feelings on the subject. “I’ve seen worse.”

John closes his eyes and counts to ten. That’s one rabbit hole they’re not going down today (or ever, probably. It’s not like Sherlock actually wants to discuss the subject). “Either way, it’s not polite to stare.” Sherlock snorts and John rolls his eyes once more. “Here. Help me carry these back into the house.”

Sherlock frowns, but doesn’t argue. Which, if John hadn’t been flustered about their conversation, he would have noticed immediately and call the other out in the oddity of his behavior. But things being what they are, that’s something he’ll notice once it’s too late to matter. “Where were you, anyway?” John questions. “I couldn’t find you even after making a couple of rounds around the market.”

Sherlock picks up the bags, carefully avoiding his eyes. “Nothing much. Sightseeing, mostly.”

John frowns, eying the other man up and down. Sherlock’s tone has him worried, but nothing seems to be amiss. He knows now that the other deliberately lost him at the market and he’s probably up to something, but for the life of him, John can’t figure out what.

It doesn’t really matter, he supposes. There’s so very little privacy they’re actually allowed and secrets can’t actually be kept for long so… if Sherlock doesn’t want him to know, he’ll let him be.

He supposes that’s part of the reason they get along so well. Neither asks questions they know the other won’t want to answer.

“Ready to head back?” he asks lightly and his companion offers him a tight smile. John sighs, looking away, biting his lip gently. No, he supposes neither of them really is, but they really must. “Come on, we don’t want to be late. Mrs. Hudson will have my head if we keep on dithering.”

Sherlock hums non committedly, but they resume their walk. The younger boy looks thoughtful, eyes fixed on his feet as he walks. John bites his own lip, feeling the uncomfortable silence stretching between them and wondering what to do about it.

“I’ve never actually been kissed,” Sherlock says suddenly, startling John so badly he almost chokes on his own saliva.

He had not been expecting that. “Really?” he finds himself asking because- well, it seems odd. Especially considering- but well, maybe Sherlock means-

“At all,” the boy clarifies calmly. “The Master prefers me on my hands and knees,” he adds and John can feel his stomach rolling, but doesn’t say anything. If Sherlock wants to get this out of his chest- he’ll listen. He’ll listen and he’ll attempt to comfort him to the best of his abilities. “All for the best,” Sherlock continues wistfully. “That way I might get to share it with someone that actually cares for me.”

John’s heart clenches painfully inside his chest, but keeps his face carefully blank. Sherlock doesn’t appreciate being pitied and so he does his best to ignore his own feelings at whatever the other boy says. 

They continue walking in silence, John uncertain if he should say something. “I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Sherlock says after a while and John shakes his head vigorously, hating how upset the other sounds.

“Not exactly,” he concedes finally, risking a quick glance in his friend’s direction. “It’s just- I hate not being able to help somehow.”

Sherlock hums, “it’s fine, John. It’s all fine.”

But it really isn’t.

* * *

 

John isn’t exactly sure if he and Sherlock are friends. He certainly considers him his friend, but he’s not so sure about the other teen. Sherlock always acts a bit aloof and he certainly likes to keep many things to himself, but they do spend a lot of time together. Sometimes not even doing anything, but simply sitting together and keeping each other company.

Of course there are many subjects they simply don’t discuss (their families and lives previous  _ this  _ being the main topics) but there’s a sense of camaraderie. Or at least that’s what John likes to believe. In their situation, having someone to lean on is always nice.

They understand each other well, without needing to actually exchange any words. Just one quick look and they know what the other is thinking.

John groans in frustration as his thoughts take a much more dangerous path. He’s not blind, after all, and Sherlock is very attractive. He’s especially attractive when he’s with John, looking full of life and so much more relaxed. 

But of course, anything other than what they have is off the table. Not only could it lead to their deaths (literally) if they’re discovered, but it would also complicate everything. They’re not free to feel anything for each other.

And there’s also the moral implications. Given Sherlock’s- particular situation, he needs someone to take care of him and make him feel safe. If John was to press his unwanted feelings on the other boy, it just wouldn’t be fair on him. It would feel like taking advantage.

He sighs, silently berating himself for getting lost in his self pitying thoughts. He has bigger worries than his misguided feelings, namely  _ finding his missing friend. _

He hadn’t given the occurrence at the market any more thought once they arrived back at the house, particularly not when Mrs. Hudson had immediately started chiding him for taking so long. Considering the horrid mood the Master was in, John couldn’t exactly blame her and so he had simply hurried to put the food away and head back into the kitchen to prepare dinner.

He had lost sight of Sherlock after that, but that wasn’t unexpected, seeing the other boy really had nothing to do at the kitchen. When he didn’t see him the following day, he hadn’t thought much about it either, figuring his friend was entertaining himself with something else.

But now-

Three days seems a bit of a stretch. Even when Sherlock gets lost in his own head and his “experiments” (whatever they are, John hasn’t exactly pried, figuring it’s none of his business), he usually makes time to make a quick visit to John. This sudden silence just doesn’t bode well.

But who should he ask? His close relationship with the other boy already is subject of much gossip among the other slaves and he’s more than a little worried the Master will catch whiff of it. If that was to happen-

Well. It’s no use even thinking about it.

He taps his fingers against his chin, thinking. Going into the Master’s bedroom would be just as suicidal as asking the wrong person, so that won’t do. He would normally ask Mrs. Hudson, but the woman is being strangely elusive. There’s Molly too, but now that he thinks about it-

When was the last time he saw Molly?

Good Lord, what the hell is going on?

* * *

 

The insistent knocking on his door would have startled him if he had been asleep. Since he had been sitting on the bed, thinking and worrying, he simply blinks and stands up to open the door, just to find a frenetic looking Molly standing on the other side.

“Wha-?” he begins, but the girl doesn’t let him finish, grabbing him by the arm instead and pulling him along. When he notices they’re heading towards the Master’s quarters, his heart sinks, but he forces himself not to panic.

Panicking won’t help Sherlock at all.

There’s a much smaller room next to the Master’s. John isn’t sure it was ever used before and he’s not exactly certain what its purpose is, since he knows for a fact that Sherlock sleeps in the same room that the Master (although not on the same bed). So he’s a bit surprised when Molly pulls him into said room, closing the door behind them, startling him.

Before he can ask though, his attention gets dragged by the person lying on the small cot in the corner. Sherlock looks sickly pale, his long curls sticking to his forehead by the sweat. He’s shaking visibly, face contorted in pain, eyes wide but gaze lost.

He kneels on the ground immediately, pulling the other boy to him. He notices he’s missing his medical bag and almost curses out loud, but Mrs. Hudson passes him a small bag that has, oddly enough, all the instruments he needs.

He wonders since when has his stuff been missing and promptly dismisses the thought. There are more pressing matters, after all.

Sherlock whimpers as he helps him sit up, head lolling back. John bites his lip and tells himself not to panic once more, but it’s a losing battle. There’s no enough light in the room for him to work, but a quick look into the other’s pupils and mouth leads him to believe he’s been poisoned.

Or he might have poisoned himself. He’s really not willing to contemplate that scenario.

“How long has he been like this?” he questions, checking the other’s temperature. Molly and Mrs. Hudson exchange a look, both looking troubled. “How long?!” he demands angrily, wondering what they’re not telling him.

“It’s not- It wasn’t this bad earlier,” Molly murmurs finally, looking away. “A little fever and some throwing up but nothing that led us to believe it could get- like this. His condition quickly deteriorated in the last hour or so.”

John makes a face, unsure of what he can do. Poisoning is tricky, especially if you don’t know what the administered poison was. Sherlock whimpers once more, attempting to curl unto himself and that’s when the smell of blood hits him. He frowns, checking the boy over once more, but not finding any visible wound. 

“Do you have any idea what he might have taken?” he asks softly, running his fingers through the other boy’s hair. He can feel himself shaking and forces himself to take a deep breath. Behind him, the women are still quiet.

God, what to do? what can he-? “Mercury,” Mrs. Hudson finally says. “A low dose, but-”

“Mercury?!” John exclaims, desperation quickly threatening to overcome him. “Where the hell did he-? why-?”

Molly is staring at her hands, looking guilty. Mrs. Hudson pursues her lips, obviously unhappy. “From the midwife.”

John opens his mouth to demand an actual explanation, when the answer finally hits him. He looks back at Sherlock, still shivering in his arms, hugging himself and looking deadly pale. He closes his eyes for a beat and takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. “There are safer ways to go about an abortion.”

Mrs. Hudson shrugs non committedly. “The midwife told him as much. But… desperation is a bad adviser.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asks softly, unconsciously pulling the boy closer to himself. 

“He was bleeding quite a bit,” Molly whispers, tears shining in her eyes. “We thought- it’s just, normally- it’s not that uncommon to develop a fever and to throw up and just- we didn’t-”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with an abortion,” Mrs. Hudson tells him coldly, straightening her spine. “Everything seemed to be under control.”

“Oh, really?!” John exclaims sarcastically. “Because it seems to me-”

“We didn’t know he had taken mercury,” Molly intervenes meekly. “We assumed it had been pennyroyal. The symptoms-”

“That’s because that’s toxic too!” John exclaims, mostly frustrated by now. “Why-?”

“John,” Mrs. Hudson interrupts him sharply. “Panicking and looking for someone to blame won’t help.” John bites his lip, fighting back his frustration. She’s right, of course, but he’s just so- so-

“Alright. Alright,” he murmurs, laying the other teen down once more and standing up, feeling filled with nervous energy. “I’ll- I’ll figure out something.” He has some idea of what he can do, but he has no way of knowing if it’ll actually work. Any natural solutions might have worked if he had started the treatment earlier, but at this point-

Well. No use on thinking of what ifs.

He has work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m concerned about how well the beginning matches the ending. The market trip thing was supposed to go slightly different, as well as their conversation afterwards. But with how things are developing, my original idea didn’t work out that well… it seemed a bit rushed. I’m just no good at this slow burn thing.  
> Also, there’s a lot of bad things going on. Not very conducive to romance, is it? Although we might revise that conversation later on. I think.  
> Drinking hot mercury was an abortion method used in China. Of course, I would highly advise against it, since well… mercury is very toxic. The dose is supposed to be very small and not remotely lethal, but things can always go wrong, can’t they? It’s not like the circumstances are conducive for carefully planning and thinking of consequences.  
> But I do worry if it feels a bit out of the blue.  
> Also, the timeline is crazy. I drop hints here and there of how much time has passed, but do you guys have it clear? Should I put more emphasis on that?  
> I should let you know that the following few weeks are likely to be quite stressful for me (money is likely to be a little tight and this is definitely not the season for it!) so that could be either a very bad thing (I won’t be in the mood to write much) or a very good thing (I’ll write until my fingertips bleed to avoid thinking about real life concerns) so… we’ll see. But good vibes are greatly appreciated! ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought!


	6. Out of options

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I was planning on updating yesterday, but the ending just wasn’t working for me, so I think it over and over and ended up changing it.  
> I’m a little worried of my handling of the pregnancy and the abortion, and we continue with that in this chapter, so… well, I would love to hear what you thought.  
> Warnings apply as ever.  
> Enjoy?

His eyelids feel oddly heavy and attempting to open his eyes seems like an impossible task. Sherlock lets out a soft noise, half pained whimper/half annoyed huff and attempts to sit up, eyes still closed.

Immediately there are hands pushing him to lay down once more, someone speaking in soft reassuring tones and although he can’t quite make out the words, he can feel himself relaxing at the familiar voice.

He hums contently, grabbing one of the hands before it can leave his shoulder and nuzzling it happily. There’s an amused chuckle from his mysterious companion, that also sounds curiously like a sob, but he decides not to pay much attention to the small details. He feels warm and safe and he figures that’s more than enough.

Even if he can’t remember where he is or what happened.

It doesn’t seem to matter anyway.

* * *

 

When he wakes up again, his insides feel all mushy. He sits up as quickly as he can, but that only makes him feel even more dizzy and so he ends up throwing up all over his lap. He makes a disgusted face, nose scrunched in displeasure and groans loudly.

“Easy, easy,”John murmurs, rubbing his spine gently. “It's alright, you're alright,” his voice sounds weird, all raspy. As if-

Oh. John’s eyes are bloodshot and there are dark bags beneath them. He hasn't been sleeping and if Sherlock had to venture a guess, he would say he has been crying. “What happened?” he asks, his voice just as raspy due desuse.

John lets a dry chuckle that sounds close to a sob, shaking his head. “You poisoned yourself.”

Sherlock considers this. It doesn't make sense, he’d remember if he had done that, wouldn't he? Unless- oh. “Too much mercury, then?”

“Yes, you idiot!” John exclaims, evidently frustrated, but promptly deflates, now looking sad and guilty. “I’m sorry. I don't- I was just so worried.”

Sherlock doesn't answer right away, not sure what he can say. “I didn't- I didn't mean to-" he gulps, biting his lip. He won't apologize for what he did, he _won't._ He _had to._ “I didn't mean to poison myself,” he says finally, because that much is true.

John sighs, running his fingers through his curls in such an affectionate gesture that Sherlock can't help leaning into the touch. “I know,” he murmurs softly. “I just- why didn't you tell me?”

Sherlock bites his lip, uncertain. How can he explain to John that he didn't want him to- to realize how used up his body is? He knows it's a foolish notion, since the other boy _knows_ what has happened and continues to happen to him.  But this just- it seemed-

He just didn't want John to know.

“I’m sorry?” he repeats uncertainly and John sighs, still caressing his hair.

“Just don’t do it again,” the blond pleads and Sherlock makes a face. He can’t promise that. He- Although-

“It took me too long to notice,” he murmurs softly, leaning further into John’s touch, enjoying the petting of his hair far too much. “Next time I might not need to resort to something quite as drastic.”

John makes a small, almost pained noise and pulls away. Sherlock closes his eyes, suddenly feeling cold. He knows some people’s beliefs clash drastically with what he did, but he had hoped John would understand. He doesn’t- he doesn’t want to have a child sired by Magnussen. He doesn’t- he doesn’t want-

“Hey, hey,” John urges him to look at him, holding his chin gently. “It’s not that,” he assures him. “It’s just- I’d rather not have a next time.”

Sherlock laughs bitterly at that, because he would like that too, but the chances are… in fact, that it took so long to happen for the first time-

John is running his fingers through his hair once more, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know much about anticonceptives,” he says finally. “The few I know are quite dangerous in the long run, but I’ll look into it,” he promises earnestly. “It’ll be fine.”

Sherlock can tell he’s about to break down crying and promptly squeezes his eyes shut, pulling away from the other’s embrace. John’s hand lingers on his curls, but he finally drops it, smiling sadly. “Do you think you can stand up? It might be a good idea for you to take a bath.”

Sherlock scrunches his nose, remembering the mess on his lap and nods, cringing a little as he attempts to stand up. The room stinks of blood and vomit and he wonders how John managed. “Thank you,” he murmurs as the other helps him to stand up on his still wobbly legs. John hums in acknowledgment, carefully holding him by the waist and bearing most of his weight as they make their way out of the room.

He still feels awful, but he thinks a bath will do wonders for him.

* * *

 

John leaves him under Mrs. Hudson watchful eye once they finally make it to the bathroom and Sherlock must admit to himself that he feels slightly disappointed. It’s silly, he knows, but he enjoys John’s company far too much and he’d rather not be away from him, particularly not when he’s feeling so vulnerable.

But of course, such thoughts will lead to nothing but trouble.

Logically, he knows his _feelings_ are nothing but inconvenient. Even if John returned them, they could never act on them, not without dire consequences for them both. Oh, he knows some of the other slaves turn to one another for physical comfort in the darkness on the night, but he could never leave the room late at night, for his absence would be noticed immediately. And during the day- well. He wouldn’t want to give anyone yet more reasons to whisper behind his back, would he?

It’s more than that, though. While he does long for someone who would treat him with kindness, for someone with whom he’d get to actually enjoy sex, that’s not the main thing. He wants-

Well, no use in denying it. He wants someone to love him.

He knew from a very young age that he was _different,_ that he would never fit in society and that the things that were expected from him would never be the things he would want. He refused to settle, to give into the society’s pressure, to accept being treated like a _girl_ when he knew he _wasn’t_. And so he had thought he would grow up alone and unloved and he had made his peace with it.

But while he had been at peace with the knowledge, deep down he had always hoped-

It’s such a small thing, really. Surely to want love is perfectly normal, perfectly human? And while he had known it would be denied to him, that he would never have it-

Well. He _wanted._

After- everything, the kidnapping and the being sold to Magnussen and the being abandoned by his family to his fate, he had thought himself too broken to ever wish for something. For so long he felt nothing but despair, even if he was aware of his lingering gaze on John, but he had thought- he hadn’t believed himself capable of feeling something deeper than attraction.

And yet, here he is. With inconvenient feelings that make him even more miserable and his situation even more desperate. But he can’t help himself, he really can’t. He has tried, _oh how has he tried_ , but his thoughts run away from him and he-

He’s sixteen, damn it! He shouldn’t be- it’s just natural for him to develop a _crush_ on a handsome boy, it’s just natural that he wants to be held and be kissed and-

And John is _oh so very nice_ to him, so very caring, so gentle. And he’s his friend! How much of a wonder is that? Sherlock, who had always thought himself unfriendable, who had always known people put up with him, but never really wanted to actually spend time with him and John, John-

He’s his friend. And he tells himself he can content himself with just that; friendship is enough of a novel concept for him and he doesn’t need to make it even more messy by adding his _unrequited feelings_ into it, except-

He closes his eyes, sinking deeper into the quickly cooling water. He’s so lonely and so desperate. He supposes that just helps to fuel his feelings and his longing; he just wants to forget how bad things are.

Nothing for it, he supposes. The best he can do is keep on ignoring his unwanted emotions and carry on as he has. It’ll be fine, he’ll be fine.

Maybe if he repeats it enough times, he’ll eventually believe himself.

* * *

 

He wonders how much Magnussen knows of his sudden _illness_ and if he suspects what really happened. The problem is that the man is completely unpredictable and while Sherlock finds hard to believe he would care about any offspring they might produce-

Well. He doesn’t need to care about the child. He just needs to care about Sherlock attempting to have any control over his own body.

Things could end up very badly for him in that case. So that night, when he returns to the bedroom and finds the other man already waiting for him, he’s careful to keep his head down and behave submissively, not wanting to enrage him. He’s scared, he won’t deny that and he hates it, he hates how low he has sunked, he hates how weak and weary he is, how meek and pathetic he has become, he hates-

He closes his eyes and tells himself to keep breathing.

With any luck, it’ll be over soon.

* * *

 

Later, as he lays on his small cot, trying to find a comfortable position, he thinks of escaping once more. He aches all over, his insides twisted with disgust and fear. He had thought he had already hit rock bottom but after tonight-

Tonight it feels like all his previous wounds have been torn open once more.

He can’t spend the rest of his life like this, he thinks. Accepting being used just to avoid being hurt and praying he won’t end up pregnant once more. Even if John figures out something to do about that-

_He doesn’t want to._

But what then? If he was to run, where would he go? Where would he be safe? He has learned Magnussen is a man of many connections, that there are far too many people who owe him something and also many that are too eager to get on his “good” side. He would have to be perpetually on the run, always fearing to be caught.

And he’d be alone.

He shakes his head, telling himself firmly to stop being silly. Freedom is much more important than company.

Before, he had thought that if he somehow managed to make it back home, he would be safe. But now he knows that’s not true and he’s fairly certain he would be sent right back, to spare the family of his _shame._

He doesn’t fancy the idea of being perpetually on the run. Mostly, because he knows it’s likely he’ll eventually slip and so he’ll end up exactly where he began, probably in a much darker situation. If now Magnussen pretty much leaves him alone during the day, letting him do as he pleases (to an extent), if such thing was to happen-

He could head to the West, he supposes and the thought is so ridiculous he almost laughs out loud. Oh, Moriarty would love that. To have him begging for help would please the psychopath to no end, no doubt and while he’s certain he’ll agree, he would probably end up in a similar situation.

No, that’s really not an option.

The more he thinks about it, the more he despairs. Is he really out of options? Has it really come down to this?

He curls into himself, hugging his knees to his chest and attempts to keep himself from crying, with minimal success.

It certainly seems so.

* * *

 

He’s not allowed that often into town, but he sometimes accompanies John when he’s running errands. Mrs. Hudson trusts he won’t try anything silly when it might end up putting John in a lot of trouble.

And normally, that would be the case. But-

Rumor has it, his brother is visiting Lady Adler. It’s the subject of much gossip, for if Mycroft did end up marrying her, their combined wealth and influence could make them the most powerful territory in the reign, threatening even the power of the Crown. Of course Sherlock very much doubts either of them actually wants to marry, especially since their preferences don’t lie in that direction, but well-

That’s not the point, though. The point is that Lady Adler’s home is just a couple of days of travel away. If he leaves now and is careful about it, he has a decent chance of making it there in time to see his brother.

And while he does remember his whole family has turned their back on him, if he can reach Mycroft-

Mycroft won’t turn him away if he shows up when it’s just the two of them, without Father’s interference. Oh, he certainly won’t allow him back home, but Mycroft will figure something out for him to be safe and be left alone. It’s- it’s all Sherlock can ask for, really.

But if he’s going to do that, he needs to do it now.

He spares a quick glance in John’s direction and asks himself if he’s capable of leaving the other boy to his fate, particularly knowing he’ll be damning him. His heart constricts painfully inside his chest, feeling properly torn between his one chance of freedom and John.

He could ask the other boy to run away with him, of course, but John might not agree right away and they’ll end up wasting time. And what if he says no? What if he doesn’t want to go with him?

Besides, if there’s two of them, it’s more likely someone will notice their absence sooner and he needs to put as much distance between himself and Magnussen’s lands before anyone raises the alarm. He simply doesn’t have the time.

But-

He grabs John’s arm and starts pulling him towards the closest alley, hoping they won’t drag much attention to themselves. Luckily, John is either too surprised to react or he understands Sherlock’s urgency and goes without a fuss.

Once concealed from prying eyes, John stares at him expectantly. Sherlock bites his lip, still unsure if he really wants to do this. “I-” he begins and then he shakes his head. They don’t have time for this. “Come with me.”

John frowns, confused and Sherlock can feel his desperation rising. This is a bad idea, a terrible one. He can’t explain, they don’t have time for him to explain-

But John seems to understand. He looks at him worriedly, biting his lip too. “Go,” he urges him gently. “I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”

Sherlock’s heart swells and he can feel tears attempting to escape his eyes. “I can’t leave you. I don’t- you won’t-”

“I’ll be fine,” John interrupts him sharply and Sherlock shakes his head.

“Come with me,” he repeats and John smiles sadly at him, before pressing their foreheads together gently.

“They’ll catch us. You have a better chance of making it if you go on your own.”

“But-”

“Go, Sherlock,” John repeats, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek. “I’ll be fine.”

And he turns around, heading back into the market, not looking back once.

Sherlock hesitates, standing in the dark alley for a beat, before he snaps out of his stupor. He needs to do this. Even if he feels like his heart is breaking into a million of irreparable pieces-

As he quickly makes his way out of the market place and starts looking for a horse to steal, he wonders if he’ll ever stop hating himself for what he has done.

He wonders if it’ll be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so glad I didn’t post this last night and got to rethink that last scene. In the original draft, Sherlock left without telling John, but the more I turned the idea inside my head, the least convincing I found it. I mean, his situation is quite desperate, but well- I just couldn’t convince myself leaving without at least warning John would be IC.  
> John staying to buy Sherlock time, on the other hand, seems very IC to me, but I would love to hear your thoughts!  
> Worry not though! John will be fine, I promise that much!  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	7. Needed lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… this chapter. It’s rather short, but I’m hoping the next one will make up for it. There are, after all, many things to be revealed, but I really prefer to have Sherlock’s POV for that.  
> Warnings apply as ever, with some mentions of violence in here.  
> Enjoy?

He probably ought to have thought this a little bit better.

John sighs, running his fingers through his short hair. The moment he had turned around, leaving Sherlock at the alley, he had felt panic slowly rising. But he had managed to keep himself together, going through his usual errands so not to cause any suspicion.

But now that the time to actually head back to the house has come, he’s finding harder and harder to keep his cool.

He can’t go back without Sherlock in tow. He just can’t; he’ll never live to see the light of the next day if he does that. This particular plan though- well, it might be just as suicidal.

He wishes he had had more time to come up with a better plan. But evidently, Sherlock hadn’t been actually planning on escaping; he probably saw something today that made him rethink his chances of making it to safety and who is John to stop him, even if it means a world of trouble for him?

He hopes his friend does make it. If he gets caught and dragged back to Magnussen, his charade will be over and the consequences will be-

Well. Better not to think about that just yet.

So, back to the problem at hand- how to convince the Master that Sherlock was taken away?

Whenever John goes to the market, he’s always carrying quite a bit of money with him. He knows he’s perfectly safe; no thief would be stupid enough to rob from a slave of Lord Magnussen. One would have to be even more stupid to harm any of his slaves; as for actual abduction-

Well. It’s going to be tricky.

First things first. Get rid of the money and the stuff he bought. Although maybe not the food- that might be suspicious. What would a regular human trafficker steal? The money, yes, the pretty slave too. What else?

God, he really should have thought this better. He should have tried to talk Sherlock into waiting for a bit, so they could actually come up with a plan. He should have gone with him, dammit!

But no. Their absence would have been noticed far earlier and Sherlock needs all the time he can get. He’s made it far before, but if he’s going to succeed this time-

John has to step up his game.

So. He can’t bury the money or hide it anywhere near where he’s planning to be “attacked”. He guesses his best chance is to leave it at one of the market stands and hope that whoever finds it won’t be too interested in finding the rightful owner.

Once done that, he starts heading towards the edge of town.

It all comes down to timing, really. If he does this right, he’ll buy Sherlock a couple of extra hours. If it goes badly… well. He can only hope the other teen has managed to run far enough.

As for himself, his survival depends entirely on how convincing he can make the supposed attack look. Knocking himself out is going to be problematic, but he needs to roughen himself up a little first.

God, this is really complicated.

Minutes later, with bruised knuckles, courtesy of a wall and a nasty bruise on the side, courtesy of throwing himself against the same wall, John wonders if it’ll be worth it. There are so many things he wishes could have been different, but things are what they are and if Sherlock does make it safety-

Then it doesn’t really matter what happens to him.

* * *

 

His first impression when he wakes up is that wherever he is, it’s quite warm. Which strikes him as odd, because he’s used to his room being cold and he can’t actually remember going to sleep, so-

As he attempts to sit up, there are hands pushing him down once more. He panics for a beat, before he hears Molly’s sweet voice attempting to calm him down. He turns to the girl, confused, expecting an explanation.

“Don’t you remember anything?” the girl asks softly, eyes fixed on the side of his head and so John’s hand goes there, feeling the nasty bump on it. He can’t quite remember anything- how hard did he hit his head? And what was he doing, anyway?

Molly bites her lip nervously, sparing a quick glance towards the door. “Listen, I don’t- we don’t have much time. Just- Is Sherlock alright? Did he escape?”

And just like that, all his memories come back to him. Seems he managed to knock himself out quite effectively; so well that he can’t even remember how he did it. He looks at Molly, at her honestly concerned face and hates himself a little for having to lie, but if this is going to work-

You never know who might be listening, after all. “I don’t- I don’t remember much. I think- I think we were robbed?”

Molly’s eyes widen even further, now looking frightened more than worried. She understands the implications, of course and she’s fearful of Sherlock’s fate. “Who would be stupid enough to rob from Lord Magnussen?” she questions, her voice a strangled whisper.

“Who, indeed.”

Both turn towards the door, paling considerably. John attempts to sit up once more, ignoring his spinning head and Molly lets him this time, simply moving a bit so she’s not kneeling between him and the Master. John keeps his head down, heartbeat picking up speed, awfully aware of the older man’s eyes on him, taking inventory of his state.

A quick look in Molly’s direction has the girl standing up quickly and hurrying out of the room. John takes a quick look around then, instinctively looking for an exit, even if he knows it’d be useless. He can only hope he has managed to make his lie look convincing enough.

“So,” the other man prompts, watching him closely. “Who would dare to steal from _me_?”

John knows that his future hangs on how he answers this. He forces himself to take a deep breath and begin reciting the story he came up with; his aching head and his concussion certainly helping to make it sound less memorised and more honest, but the Master is frightfully perceptive; one has to be, John supposes, when one dedicates their lives to make others as miserable as possible by deciphering their darkest deepest secrets.

By the end of his tale, he can feel his heart ready to give up at any given moment. He’s aware he’s shaking, but he can’t help himself. And he supposes it’s better that way; the Master is always awfully pleased when people show they’re afraid of him.

“You do know that if I find out you’ve lied to me, the consequences will be most… unpleasant.” The tone is calm, almost bored. John assumes he still thinks he can get Sherlock back and so he’s not angry just yet, but-

“I’d never lie to you, Master,” he whispers softly, head down, forcing himself to take deep breaths to keep the panic at bay. Magnussen huffs, sounding amused and John flinches, readying himself for whatever might come.

He knows he’s not going to get out of this unscratched. He’s just hoping he’ll live to tell the tale.

“I know you’re very loyal, John,” he tells him slowly, his tone turning slightly menacing and it takes every bit of self control for the younger man not to flinch when the other places a hand on his shoulder. “Unfortunately, you don’t choose wisely who to be loyal to.” John closes his eyes, aware of his rapid beating heart and the shortness of his breath. “A pity, really. You’d be so much more useful that way.”

And he moves away, leaving the room shortly after. John’s knees give up on him and he collapses on the floor, relieved tears streaming down his cheeks. Oh, good Lord, is he really getting out of this so easily? Is he safe (for now)?

Now- if only he could find out how Sherlock fares- if only he knew his friend was safe-

Well. Perhaps that’s too much to wish for.

And yet-

* * *

 

As another day goes by without news of Sherlock’s whereabouts, John finds himself breathing easier. Of course he has to pretend otherwise, but deep down he’s awfully grateful; if his friend makes it safety- that’s all that matters.

And if his heart aches a little at the thought of never seeing the other boy again-

Well. That’s not important.

* * *

 

“You’re either telling the truth, or you’re an awfully skilled liar.”

John keeps his head down, careful not to show how scared he is. It won’t help one bit and it might just give him away. There’s nothing that suggests that the “kidnapping” was staged up, or at least nothing that the Master’s people have managed to find, but as the days pass and no news come, the man is getting more and more frustrated.

Still, John thinks that the beating he has just received has nothing on the one that’d come if the other finds out he lied to him and helped Sherlock escape.

“You know, your mother has yet to shake off that awful drinking habit of hers,” Magnussen comments almost off handedly and John’s heart stops in his chest. “It’s only a matter of time before she ends up in the same situation that put you here,” he continues cruelly and John bites his lip. “Funny how the stories tend to repeat themselves, don’t you think?” he knows he can’t say anything, he _won’t give the man the satisfaction_ \- “how old is your sister now? Fourteen?”

Fifteen. Just a year younger than Sherlock. _God._ “Not exactly my type,” Magnussen carries on cruelly and John forces himself to keep his temper under control. “But I suppose I’ll make do,” he continues thoughtfully and the blond clenches his jaw, biting down the words that he wants to say but that he knows will only make things worse for him. “Unless there’s something you’d like to tell me?”

He has no idea where Sherlock went or why he thought it was the right time to make an attempt of escaping, but it really matters not. He wouldn’t speak even if he knew, but God, he hates that the other man is threatening his baby sister. He knows it’s a baseless threat, at least for now, but if his mother has gone back to drinking and gambling-

Dammit.

The Master sighs, evidently displeased and John’s heartbeat picks up speed once more. What now?

“Get out of my sight,” the older man orders darkly and John is out of the room a second later, ignoring the various ways in which his body aches. It’s fine, it’s all fine. Apparently Sherlock did make it to safety and that’s all that matters.

He thinks he might have to make a quick visit to Mother one of this days, but it can wait, at least for a bit.

Now, to take care of his new bruises-

* * *

 

“You were very brave, but very foolish,” Mrs. Hudson tells him gently, as she helps him apply healing salve to the worse of his bruises. “He knows you’re lying, but on the off chance you aren’t- he does like you, John.”

The blond huffs. “You think?”

Mrs. Hudson hums thoughtfully. “You’re useful and skillful, he’s not particularly eager to get rid of you,” she murmurs and John has to hum in agreement. That much is true, but it wouldn’t stop the Master if he finds out he indeed helped Sherlock escape. “And- you might become an useful bargain chip.”

“What?” he questions and Mrs. Hudson smiles sadly at him.

“If he does manage to get that poor thing back- don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at each other. And with all this self sacrificing business you have going on-”

John blinks. “What?” he repeats dumbly and the woman rolls her eyes good naturedly.

“Nothing at all, dear. Let’s just hope for both of your sakes that she has managed to make it to safety.”

“He,” John corrects without thinking and Mrs. Hudson scrunches her nose.

“Right. I forget. With everything that’s going on-”

John smiles at her softly. Yes, he understands and he supposes Sherlock would too, but still- “I really have no idea where he might be,” he says, unsure of how wise it’d be to say much. Although they’re in the relative safety of his own room, he’d rather not risk it. The walls are thin, after all.

“I know,” Mrs. Hudson replies, standing up and heading towards the door. “Let’s just pray he’s better off there.”

John nods.

That’s all they can do, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I told you John was going to be fine… or as fine as he could be, given the circumstances. As for Sherlock… well, we’ll see in the next chapter what’s going on with him but I must warn you- we’re still a bit away from our happy ending. So bear with me, pretty please.  
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought?


	8. Sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… here’s a new chapter. It didn’t go exactly as I wanted it to, but I think it works. Not so sure how- realistic it feels (particularly the ending), but well…  
> Warnings apply as ever, although this might be one of those chapters where they’re most… not present?  
> Enjoy?

He made it.

Somehow, he made it.

Sherlock thinks he could cry of happiness, except there’s a lot of guilt and fear inside him and so- well, he has some mixed feelings about having made it to the Adler’s territory without being noticed.

But he’ll have time to figure out that later. Just because he has made it this far, it doesn’t mean he can let his guard down just yet. He still needs to talk to his brother and then-

His stomach is twisted in nervous knots, anxiety clawing at his insides making him feel sick. He’s fairly certain Mycroft won’t turn his back on him, but well- he had trusted his brother to make a bigger effort to get him back, despite of what Father might have said and _see how that turned out._

Well, he won’t accomplish anything by just standing here, that's for sure. Time to go and face Mycroft.

But first, how to get inside the mansion?

It’s not like he can walk through the main door and demand to see Lady Adler. He supposes he’s dressed nicely, but not nicely enough to be mistaken for a regular visit of Irene and his clothes are certainly dirty due his journey. He bites his lip, considering his options, thinking what he might do now; it wouldn’t do to drag attention to himself, but he does need to get inside, so…

A quick look around the house confirms that yes, there’s still the old tree they used to climb when they were children and were attempting to escape the adults. Sherlock doesn’t think he’s quite as athletic as he was back then and his much larger frame might make the sneaking in unseen slightly difficult, but all things considered-

It seems like a good enough option.

Climbing the tree proves to be easy enough; scurrying through the house not quite so. The place seemed immense when he was a child, but then, that was over a decade ago. Now there don’t seem to be enough dark nooks to hide in.

He’s lucky he has such a privileged memory, really (well… he is, in these particular circumstances) because otherwise he’s not sure he’ll manage to find his way around the place. The Adlers have a ridiculous collection of completely useless things and a bunch of rooms to house them- if Irene and Mycroft do marry, they’ll end up driving each other insane considering his brother’s penchant for order.

He makes a face at the thought. It’s been so very long since he last saw Irene, but he always liked the girl. She was incredibly smart and witty; something Sherlock couldn’t say he was used to with his peers. She was just a couple of years older than him too, so they used to play a lot back when they had been toddlers.

But of course, that was a lifetime ago. He wouldn’t dare to assume she’d be as friendly to him as she was back then, although he’s hoping-

Well. That’s not important.

He’s careful to stay hidden, but he thinks it’s only a matter of time before someone catches him sneaking around. In that sense, it’s quite a blessing that the person he finally bumps into is not someone who’s likely to raise the alarm at his unannounced visit.

That’s not to say she looks particularly pleased with his presence.

“Sherlock?” Irene asks surprised, eyes going wide. She looks pretty much as Sherlock remembers her, even if a little taller. “Wha- How- what happened to you?!” she asks, pulling him into the nearest room and closing the door after them, throwing them into darkness. Her pointed nails are digging into the soft skin of his arm, making him feel slightly panicked, but the grip is still softer than the one he’s used to and the hand is definitely smaller and more delicate, so he tries to rationalize with himself that it’s fine.

Or well, as fine as it can be.

“I’m looking for my brother,” he says, without missing a beat and carrying on as soon as Irene shows signs of wanting to interrupt. “Where is he?”

Irene’s eyes swept over him, confused and annoyed at not being given answers. The room is dark, but Sherlock can tell by the tilt of her head and the light in her eyes that he’s going to need to explain what’s happened, if he hopes to get any help from her.

Still- “Please, Irene. I’ll explain later,” he pleads softly, eyes earnest. “I need to talk to Mycroft.”

Irene makes a face, looking displeased. “He’s not here.”

Sherlock’s heart sinks to his feet and he feels his knees giving up on him. Irene tries to steady him, but eventually gives up and instead makes him lean against the wall, urging him to breath.

This isn’t good, no good at all. Oh God, what is he going to do now?

“What’s the matter?” the woman asks, kneeling in front of him. “Come on, Sherlock, you gotta tell me what’s gotten into you. Your brother- your brother said you’re dead, why- how-?”

Is that the official story? Good Lord, how did Father convince Mycroft to go along with that? “When did he leave?”

“Yesterday before sunset,” Irene replies, looking wary. “Sherlock, what the hell is going on?”

He realizes he’s shaking, but he can’t help himself. His one chance at safety and now- now-

He looks at Irene then, desperation shining in his eyes. It’s been years since they saw each other and even then, he can’t exactly claim they were great friends. But maybe- maybe she can help.

“I need your help,” he says, gripping her by the shoulders, startling her a bit with the force of his grip. “Please Irene, just- I need to contact my brother.”

Irene hesitates, looking nervous now. Sherlock supposes it has to do with his own desperation, but he really needs- he can’t calm down right now. “I can try sending a messenger to intercept him,” she says slowly. “Maybe if he rushes- it’s not like your brother was in a hurry to go back to your home…”

Sherlock thinks he could cry of relief. Yes, that’s all he needs, really. If he can get a message to Mycroft- he needs to believe his brother will help. “Yes, please. I can’t- I can’t go back-”

“Back where?”

And that’s when Sherlock makes the mistake he’ll regret forever. Because the minute the name slips from his lips, he can see Irene’s whole countenance changing. And yet, despite it, despite every instinct in his body urging him to flee, he stays where he is, frozen on the spot, heart beating so erratically that it’s nealy unbearably painful.

Everyone knows who Lord Magnussen is and almost everyone has good reasons to not want to get on his bad side. He can read Irene’s fear written all over her face and yet, somehow, he still foolishly hopes-

“Come on, you need to rest,” the girl tells him, opening the door once more and leading him towards where her room is. “I- I’ll see about that messenger.”

He knows he shouldn’t trust her. Frightened people are dangerous people, never to be believed. And yet-

What else is there for him to do?

 

* * *

 

The guest room is exactly as Sherlock remembers it: oddly empty. In a house filled to the brim with random trinkets, the two guest bedrooms are barely furnished. When he was a kid, Sherlock found that very intriguing.

Now however, he only finds the emptiness unnerving.

There’s nothing for him to do but wait. Considering the door has been locked, he’s not feeling particularly optimistic about his future, but the room lacks any windows or ventilations he could use to escape. The minute he saw the fear in Irene’s eyes he should have begun running in the opposite direction but it seems that, even after everything, he’s still a foolish child.

The door opens and Sherlock considers the merits of making a run for it. When he sees the guards standing casually outside the door, he knows it’s useless. So he sits back on the bed, watching as Irene approaches him warily, carrying a tray with food with her.

“How lovely of you,” he comments sarcastically. “To feed me before throwing me back to the lion’s den.”

Irene sighs, not looking at him. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she murmurs. “I really am. But what do you expect me to do? I won’t make an enemy out of Lord Magnussen because of you.”

He supposes it’s fair. It’s not like they were great friends or even allies to begin with.

“I hope you find yourself capable of sleeping with such a guilty conscience.”

The woman sighs once more, running her fingers through her hair. “Eat,” she orders and Sherlock supposes he might as well. He hasn’t eaten anything since the morning before their trip to the market and it’s been over two days since then. Also, the trip back is quite long and he won’t have the adrenaline rush to distract him.

Thinking of going back to Magnussen makes him think of John and what might have happened to him, but he’s unwilling to consider that for long- he can’t handle the guilt of knowing he caused the other boy pain and that it was all in vain.

He eats in silence, Irene watching him curiously. He wishes he could be angry at her, but he can’t summon the energy to care. So many people from his previous life have betrayed him that this doesn’t really surprise him.

If his own family could turn their backs at him, why would he expect any better from practically a stranger, no matter their shared past?

When he’s done, Irene comes to stand up closer to him. He can see the syringe in her hand and in a way he’s thankful he’ll be drugged during the trip back; he doesn’t know what he might do out of desperation. Before she injects him though, he finds himself attempting to reason with her. “Irene, please. I’m begging you-”

But it’s too late and he knows it. He barely feels the sting on the syringe and immediately the world turns blurry. “Irene, please-” he pleads once more and he can see the hesitation and how torn the girl is-

But he doesn’t think it’ll be enough to keep him safe.

 

* * *

 

“I’m so sorry,” someone is whispering against his ear, voice thick with suppressed tears. “I’m so so sorry.”

But being sorry means so very little.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up again, he recognizes the room he’s in right away. He has no energy left to feel sad or angry or anything really. He had one chance to escape and he messed it up so badly.

So he curls into himself and goes back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

There are hands fluttering over his body, gracing his ribs and arms just barely. He wants to feel something (disgust, despair, frustration, _anything_ ) but he’s just so very tired-

It’s been nearly a week since he escaped and now he’s back to where he started. He tries reasoning with himself that he never really had many expectations of actually making it, but it’s useless. For a little while he had tasted freedom, he had thought himself safe- only to be betrayed again.

At least for now Magnussen seems inclined to let him be, only contenting himself with running his hands over his body. Sherlock closes his eyes and attempts to go back to sleep, ignoring his body. Luckily the effect of whatever Irene injected him with lingers and so he quickly drifts to sleep, barely aware of the other’s presence in the room.

It’s a matter of time before his particular brand of Hell begins once more, but for now-

For now he should only think of resting as much as he can.

 

* * *

 

Small mercies, Sherlock thinks.

Apparently, Irene had enough decency to fabricate a story of Sherlock ending up at her territory by being dragged by a band of human traffickers and not by his own two feet, looking for his brother. He supposes that made the Master slightly less angry, or at least, not angry _at him._ He also assumes the story matches John’s enough for, as far as he knows, the other boy is fine (or as fine as he can be).

He doesn’t know for sure, of course, because he’s been locked inside the Master’s room for the last week and he’s beginning to suspect he’ll never be let out again. Magnussen is, after all, very possessive and the prospect of losing his favorite plaything seems to have upset him greatly.

Sherlock chuckles bitterly at the thought. He had escaped hoping to finally be free again, only to end up more locked up than ever before.

Days pass in a blur, without him caring one bit. He feels as despondent as he used to when this nightmare first began, perhaps even worse. He spends all his time either sleeping or just lying on his cot and attempting to keep his mind blank. Once upon a time, his mind was an intricate construction where he archived every bit of knowledge he came across for later examination. He could spend hours lost in his own mind, revising some memory or another. Now however-

Now however even thinking, _remembering_ hurts to much.

There are hands on his shoulders and he _wants_ to care about it, but he just can’t bring himself to. Except- the hands are smaller than Magnussen’s and rough, calloused. He forces himself to pay attention, blinking a couple of times to bring into focus whoever is shaking him oh-so-very-lightly.

“Hey,” John greets softly, once Sherlock’s eyes finally fix on him. The blond boy seems tired and upset, but physically fine (if one doesn’t count the slight bruises across his face) and that’s enough for Sherlock. He attempts to smile, but it feels like too much of an effort and so he only manages a grimace that looks like an awful parody of a smile. “Oh love, what happened?”

Sherlock wonders if John has noticed the endearment that escaped his lips and almost laughs out loud at how his heart skips a beat. Ridiculous really; one would think that romance would be far away from his mind and yet, his silly mind still picks up on such words, making his body react foolishly.

“Nothing much,” he replies tiredly, leaning into John. “Nothing worth talking about.”

John looks about to protest, but seems to think better of it, instead coming to sit closer to him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “I’m so sorry, love. So sorry.”

Sherlock has to laugh at that, because the other teen sounds so honestly remorseful. As if it somehow was his fault that- “Don’t be silly,” he murmurs, hiding his face in his companion’s chest. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. If anything- I’m sorry your efforts were for nothing.”

John shakes his head, pulling him closer. “I’d do it again. Anytime, Sherlock. Whatever you need-”

He realizes he’s crying a little too late, when he can no longer stop himself. His body shakes with every sob and John just holds him tighter, running his fingers through his curls and whispering sweet nothings against his ear, promising everything will be fine.

It won’t. But Sherlock supposes it’s a nice enough lie.

One they both desperately want to believe.

 

* * *

 

“What time is it?” he asks much later, still curled against John, now both lying on their sides, his face still hidden in his friend’s chest. The older boy hums thoughtfully, his arms tightening his hold around his waist.

“Near midnight, I think.”

“Near-” Sherlock sits up immediately, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine, panic quickly rising. Oh, this is bad, so very bad. If the Master finds them like this-

“Relax,” John murmurs, pulling him so he’s lying down once more. “I’m not that stupid, you know? The Master is- out.”

“John, we don’t know-”

“Oh no, we do know. He’s visiting Lady Adler, apparently. I don’t think he’ll be back in a while.”

“Why-?”

“Oh, he just wanted to convey how… _thankful_ he’s for her little service,” John sounds angry, but keeps his hold on Sherlock gentle. “How do you know the woman, anyway?”

Sherlock sighs, biting his lip. “What makes you think I know her personally?”

John huffs, as if the answer ought to be clear. Sherlock supposes it is, to a point. The whole made up story was a dead give away; Irene- _Lady Adler_ wouldn’t have bothered with it if she didn’t know Sherlock personally and wasn’t feeling (even if just a little bit) guilty. “She’s- _was,_ I suppose, an old family friend,” he whispers softly, feeling oddly vulnerable after confessing this bit of his past. “I- The other day at town I heard that my brother was visiting her and I thought- I thought that if I could talk to him-”

John tightens his grip unconsciously on his waist and Sherlock flinches, the embrace just short from painful. Noticing this, his friend lets go of him immediately, blushing and stammering apologies.

“I’m sorry,” the blond murmurs. “I just-” he sighs, trying to get his temper back under control. “What kind of brother could send their sibling back to this?”

“I didn’t actually talk to him,” Sherlock feels the urge to defend his older brother because, despite it all, a small part of him still hopes- “I think- I think he might have been told I’m dead.”

John sighs, running a hand up and down Sherlock’s spine. “Still- I find it hard to believe-”

“Can we please not talk about it?” Sherlock pleads, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. “I just- I don’t want to discuss it.”

John presses a quick kiss on top of his head and Sherlock finds himself relaxing once more almost immediately. “Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Sherlock simply nods, somehow curling closer to his friend, face still buried on the other’s chest. For the longest time, neither of them speak, simply taking comfort in each other’s company. “I’m glad nothing happened to you,” Sherlock says finally, tracing iddle figures over John’s shoulder. “I was so worried-”

“I told you I’d be fine,” John interrupts him, a hand cupping his cheek, forcing him to make eye contact. “And seriously, Sherlock. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Anything for you.”

Sherlock can feel tears stinging his eyes, but he tells himself he’s not going to cry. Instead, he goes for a quick peck on the cheek, before burying his face in John’s chest once more, feeling quite embarrassed and awfully emotional.

Thankfully John says nothing and simply continues holding him tight.

There’s no sleep coming to him that night, but Sherlock doesn’t really mind.

Here, in John’s arms, he just _feels_ again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo… what do you guys think?
> 
>  
> 
> I adore Irene. I really REALLY do. She’s such a great, complex character and I really, REALLY hated writing this bit for her, but well… it worked. It worked perfectly. So, while it did break my heart quite a bit, I do believe it needed to be done.
> 
>  
> 
> In my defense, this escape attempt was meant to happen so much earlier in the story, but as the idea kept on growing and growing, it ran a bit away from me and well… this happened. I did say we were still quite away from our happy ending, didn’t I?
> 
>  
> 
> Does it feel…   
>  _  
>  wrong,   
>  _  
>  though?
> 
>  
> 
> See, I said at the beginning that this whole idea came to me in a dream. The dream, actually, is the climax of the story. And for that to happen, I needed Sherlock and John in the same place, so… yep. It’s going to hurt me writing it as much as it’s going to hurt you guys reading it, so we’re really all in the same boat.
> 
>  
> 
> But we might get some more heavy romance before that. Maybe. It’s just- with everything that’s going on I don’t think it would be very realistic if I focus too much on that, but well… I’d love to hear your input!
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Lasting damage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Sorry for the late update, but I was a bit… stuck with this. I had an idea of how I wanted this to go, but it just wasn’t flowing the way I wanted it to and well, I ended up scratching it all up and rewriting it.  
> I think it works, but well… I suppose we’ll see.  
> Warnings apply as ever, also warnings for mentions of alcoholism and child neglect.  
> Enjoy?

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be on this side of the town.”

John sighs, not really wanting to discuss the subject but figuring he has no other choice. “You’re not even supposed to be out of the house,” he murmurs, feeling a tad more stressed now, but he really-

Sherlock hums. “We did ask for Mrs. Hudson’s permission,” he states somewhat calmly, although there’s a bit of worry in his tone. “She said it was fine as long as I didn’t do anything silly once again.”

John bites his lip, not wanting to open that can of worms once more, but- “It wasn’t silly.”

His friend huffs, rolling his eyes. “I nearly got you killed and it was all for nothing,” Sherlock protests softly, his voice a barely audible whisper. “Of course it was silly.”

“No, it wasn’t,” John repeats earnestly, stopping mid step, turning to look at the other directly in the eye. “It wasn’t, Sherlock. You saw a good chance of actually escaping, it didn’t work out. That doesn’t make it _silly._ ”

Sherlock’s eyes are a little misty, but he doesn’t argue. He grabs John’s arm once more, linking it with his and resumes their walk, his grip short from painful, but of course John doesn’t complain.

He throws one wary glance at the guards following them, though. These little gestures might seem meaningless but if someone was to tell the Master about them-

But the guards don’t seem particularly interested, not even watching them that closely. He guesses that’s why Mrs. Hudson chose them to accompany them on their trip: she knew that if it all came down to it, Sherlock and John could easily escape them.

Of course that would end very badly for those two guards, but if one stops to pay attention to such details… there’s far too much guilt to go around.

Although he does think escaping is out of the question, at least for now, and he doubts that even if the chance presents itself once more, they could do it together; their story is just not meant to end that way.

A sad smile makes its way to his lips then, as he thinks of the newfound intimacy that resulted of that night after Sherlock’s latest attempt of escaping. They have taken to spend every free moment in each other’s company, sometimes talking, sometimes simply holding each other. It’s certainly enjoyable, if heartbreaking once Sherlock must leave and it always makes John wonder if it’s a good idea at all; if he won’t end further hurting his friend with these stolen moments. It can’t last, it _simply won’t,_ but-

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asks, breaking him out of his conflicted thoughts. The younger teen is looking around them curiously, never having been to this side of the town, not even when he was running away. It’s certainly not surprising, for there’s nothing to see here and it’s potentially dangerous, although John doubts any thief is stupid enough to dare to threaten them, but- “John?”

The blond boy sighs, running his free hand through his hair. He shouldn’t have brought Sherlock along for this little trip, but he had insisted on going with him to the market and he really REALLY couldn’t keep postponing this visit, so- “I’m- we’re going to my mother’s.”

Sherlock stops on his tracks, turning to look at John with a mighty frown. John attempts to ignore the inquiring look as Sherlock’s eyes swept over him, seemingly reading into his very soul and so he sighs once more, before explaining. “When you… were gone, the Master said certain things that made me think it might be wise to go visit her.”

Sherlock’s frown deepens, but he doesn’t prod and so John simply squares his shoulders and resumes walking, Sherlock hurrying after him, their arms still linked, but the grip loose now. Thankfully his friend makes no further comment and they finally arrive to the small house that John once called home.

He stands outside for the longest time, hesitating still, until Sherlock grabs his hand and squeezes. The contact is more reassuring than it has any right to be and so he offers his friend one wobbly smile before knocking on the door. He’d rather be alone for this particular talk, but he won’t leave the other boy here on his own, even if he won’t technically be, considering the two guards standing just a few meters away.

With that thought in mind and despite his knocking going unanswered, he opens the door and enters, pulling Sherlock with him.

He supposes he can share this bit of his life with him.

It’s not like it really matters, anyway.

 

* * *

 

He had been expecting it, but it still feels like a punch to the gut to find Mother deeply asleep on the small cot in her bedroom, stinking of alcohol. He takes a deep breath through his nose, urging himself not to lose his temper and kneels next to her, shaking her lightly by the shoulder. Although he can feel Sherlock’s presence right behind him, he carefully avoids looking in his direction, thinking he won’t like anything that he sees reflected on his friend’s eyes.

Finally, his mother stirs, grunting something incomprehensible and pushing his hands away. John takes another breath and attempts to wake her up once more, quickly getting frustrated. “Stop it, Harry,” the woman says, pushing him away once more. “Let me sleep.”

“It’s me, Mother,” John corrects, keeping his voice down despite his anger and frustration. “Where’s Harry?”

She blinks at him sleepily, eyes unfocused. Magnussen didn’t lie apparently, she’s definitely been drinking far more than the last time John saw her. His heart constricts, thinking of his little sister having to take care of her and he also rages silently, thinking how utterly useless his sacrifice might turn out to be if she carries on like this. “Mother-”

“Of course it’s you,” she slurs out, her words barely understandable. “You’re a good son, Johnny,” she continues, patting his cheek awkwardly. “Not like that ungrateful Harriet; leaving with her… _whatever,_ ” she closes her eyes once more, obviously still drunk. “Good riddance, I say!”

John can feel panic rising, but forces himself to focus. If his sister is gone, there’s nothing he can do for her, but- “Mother, where’s Harry?”

The woman hums. “Far away,” she whispers, actually sounding sad now. “Nowhere where we’ll see her again.” And with that she goes back to sleep, completely undisturbed by the thought of her youngest being god-knows-where.

John sighs, forcing his rage down, telling himself it’s of no use to argue with Mother. In any case, there’s nothing to be done for Harry, particularly since he doesn’t know where she went. All he can do now is pray she’s safe and well cared for.

A quick look at his mother makes him think that she’s probably better off on her own, in any case.

He rubs his temples tiredly, wondering if he should do something about his mother’s state. Once upon a time, when he was much younger, he would take care of his drunk mother by making food and making sure the house was clean enough. Now though-

Now he’s too tired to care if she has eaten or if the house is nothing short of a pigsty.

At least Harry is safe from the threat of Magnussen, he thinks morosely and she’s free of the weight that their mother’s vices are. She’ll be fine; he needs to believe she’ll be fine.

There’s nothing else for him to do, after all.

 

* * *

 

The trip back to the house is made in solemn silence, Sherlock’s presence incredibly reassuring despite the younger man’s silence and the lack of arm linking on their way back. It’s better this way, probably. Even if the guards seemed uninterested on that, it won’t do to have anyone else seeing them.

Still, John can’t help to miss the warm contact.

Once inside the house they head towards his room in silent agreement, although they’re careful to avoid anyone that might be walking around the halls. The secrecy of it all is sometimes a bit exhilarating and sometimes just downright frustrating, because there’s really nothing that need to be hidden and at the same time-

Well. Better not to get lost in those thoughts.

In the room, Sherlock sits on the bed and watches as John paces around it. A part of him is still angry, but mostly he feels… disappointed. It’s not like he expected Mother to change her destructive ways, but he thought- he had hoped-

Sherlock is looking at him intently, all the while pretending he’s not. John sighs, feeling his frustration raising once more, although he knows he ought not to take it out on him. “You have questions,” he states darkly and the other boy nods slowly.

“Many,” he agrees. “But it’s your tale to tell, John. I’m not asking for anything.”

John sighs, collapsing on the bed next to him. Sherlock places a hand on his knee, patting it awkwardly, still staring at him intently, probably figuring out more things due his whole demeanor than due whatever John might be able to say out loud. “My father was a doctor,” he begins, covering his face with his hands, somehow not seeing Sherlock’s expression making it easier to talk. “He was- a nice man and I did learn a lot from him but he- he-” god, why is it so hard to talk about this, even after all this time? “He had a bit of an alcohol problem. So he spent a ridiculous amount of his time at the local pub and that’s where- that’s where he met my mother. So they hit off splendidly (of course they did) and well… they ended up married.” He makes a stop, forcing himself to take a deep breath before continuing with his tale. “When the war happened, he was recruited. And when he came back home…” He waves a hand vaguely, eyes tightly closed, but he can still feel Sherlock’s unwavering look. “He lost a leg and his hand cramped badly due a wound on the shoulder. He just- it wasn’t- things got difficult.” _Way to summarise it_ , but he just doesn’t know how else to explain it and he’s fairly certain Sherlock understands him well enough anyway. “Without a job to provide for his and mom’s drinking habit, it quickly got messy. And then he- he got into gambling.” And this is the most difficult part of his tale, isn’t it? The part he has kept himself from thinking of for so very long- “He lost everything, naturally and after a particular… rough night he- he simply didn’t come home.” He takes another deep breath, feeling tears prickling at the back of his eyelids. “Lord Magnussen showed up shortly after. Apparently, dad had lost the house to him, not to mention an impressive amount of money and he- well. He wanted his pay.” He chuckles humorlessly. “As if he hadn’t known we had nothing to pay him with.”

Nothing but silence follows his confession, although he finally notices Sherlock’s fingers tracing senseless figures on top of his knee, in what he supposes it’s meant to be a comforting gesture. “And so here I am. Of course between Harry and I, it was the obvious choice. At least to me it was.”

Sherlock takes one of his hands then, squeezing it gently and John feels the tears escaping his closed eyes, but doesn’t attempt to hold them back. “And now my sister- my baby sister- she’s- she’s-”

He finds himself incapable of continuing, pained sobs escaping his lips unbidden. Sherlock wraps his arms around him, pulling him close, one hand going immediately to caress the nape of his neck. He feels emotionally drained, but there’s something so liberating and cathartic about this that he doesn’t attempt to compose himself; instead continues crying against his friend’s neck.

Their situation is truly far away from ideal.

But at least they’ve got each other.

 

* * *

 

A series of knocks on the door startle John out of his restful sleep. He blinks at the room, his eyelids feeling oddly sticky, his whole body feeling too warm and comfortable for him to consider leaving the bed. With an almost contented sigh, he closes his eyes, burying his face on the soft body next to his.

Wait. What?

The knocking comes once more and he sits up immediately, heart beating madly. Next to him, Sherlock stirs, blinking sleepily at him, offering him a contented smile when their eyes meet.

John’s heart clenches painfully inside his chest, but he has no time to feel heartbroken when the knocking comes for a third time. Sherlock seems to realize then the situation they’re in and hurries to slip under the bed. It’s not a very good hiding place, but-

Another knock and John opens the door, sending one quick look in his hiding friend’s direction. Luckily, on the other side of the door there’s no one but Mrs. Hudson, looking middly annoyed and infinitely worried. “Just what do you two think you’re doing?” she hisses, pushing her way into the room and closing the door behind her.

John assumed she knew about their little… _arrangement,_ but she hadn’t mentioned it out loud, figuring it was for the best not to acknowledge it. “Mrs. Hudson-”

“NO, no, you both listen,” she interrupts him, glaring now at both of them since Sherlock has already crawled out of his hiding place. “You’re being too obvious now. One of these days you’re going to get caught-”

“There’s nothing-”

“It doesn’t matter!” she snaps angrily. “It doesn’t matter if you’re actually sleeping together or not, that’s not important! What matters is what it seems like it’s going on and the minute the Master gets wind of your… _whatever-_ ”

“Are you saying we must stop? That what we’re doing is… _wrong_ ?” Sherlock asks calmly, standing tall and looking so regal that John’s breath gets taken away. He sometimes forgets just how- how _different_ they are. Despite it all, Sherlock’s a Lord’s son and John is- he’s-

Well.

“I’m saying you need to be careful,” Mrs. Hudson tells him, not one bit impressed by his false bravado. “This could end very badly for both of you,” she continues, looking sad now. “Do you really want to have to bury him?” she asks Sherlock and the way his expression crumbles has John’s heart breaking into a million of tiny pieces. Mrs. Hudson bites her lip, chewing on it guiltily, even if they all know it’s true.

“Just be careful,” she pleads gently, patting Sherlock’s arm. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The younger teen nods, not meeting her eyes and carefully avoiding John’s too. The blond sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “We’ll be, Mrs. Hudson. We just- today was- it wasn’t a good day.”

She hums, still staring at Sherlock worriedly. “You can’t slip, no matter what,” she tells John, sparing a quick look in his direction. “It won’t end well for anyone involved if you do.”

He nods, knowing she’s right and aching for himself and for Sherlock, who’s now hugging himself, head hanging low. “I know. We’ll be careful.”

Still, he knows it won’t end well.

There’s simply no way for it to end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?
> 
>  
> 
> Is it reading well? Because I’m not sure if the parts that I’m leaving vague are   
>  _  
>  too vague,   
>  _  
>  to the point of it not making any sort of sense. I’d love to hear your thoughts on that.
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter was supposed to include   
>  _  
>  other things  
>  _  
>  , but John’s backstory turned far longer than I thought it would and well… the last bit didn’t seem to work in here. Besides, I think there should be a little more of build up before we get to the- I don’t want to call it sex scene, because I know myself and I don’t think I’m actually capable of writing one, but- the clo  
>  _  
>  se to sex scene  
>  _  
>  , let’s call it. It just wouldn’t make a lot of sense otherwise. I think. Huh.
> 
>  
> 
> And I didn’t have a plan for the next chapter, but now I have one, so I’ll count that as positive! It’s just one more chapter before the big climax scene! 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway… thanks for reading and pretty please let me know what you thought?
> 
>  


	10. Surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Sorry it took me a bit longer than usual, but well… I was a bit stuck with that last scene. Smut is not something I write and while I don’t think what I wrote really counts as such, getting the feelings and reactions right (or what felt right to me) was quite difficult.  
> Warnings apply as ever.  
> Enjoy?

It’s only a matter of time before things get out of control.

Sherlock knows this and that’s why he tells himself that he should stop before he dooms them both, but he has found he’s too weak for that. It’s true that they can’t carry on like this forever, but to cut it short-

It just seems _wrong._

It’s reckless to think things will remain perfectly innocent and platonic in the long run. They’re teens, after all, and the physical attraction is certainly there: the emotional connection will only make temptation harder to resist. And his _particular situation_ is horrid and has mostly discouraged him of seeking that type of physical intimacy, but-

Well. Hormones are traitorous things.

There are, of course, other things to consider.

He can feel John’s breath on the nape of his neck and he shivers. He’s not adverse at the whole cuddling, of course and he certainly enjoys spooning with the other boy to sleep, but his thoughts get carried away far too frequently for his own comfort. He sometimes thinks of turning around, kissing the other and-

John’s perfectly natural, physical reactions don’t help things one bit.

He can feel his companion’s arousal pressing against the small of his back and he's not entirely sure how he feels about it. A part of him is silently panicking, memories and fear threatening to overwhelm him. But the rational part of him is trying to keep that side at bay, reasoning with himself that _this is John._ John, who is his friend and cares for him and would never hurt him.

The arm around his waist tightens its grip and Sherlock closes his eyes, urging himself to relax. John is still deeply asleep and can’t be blamed for his bodily reaction, but-

He whimpers involuntarily and closes his eyes even more tightly, still trying to get himself to relax. At night, he simply escapes his body, getting lost in his own head and so deliberately avoiding noticing what’s happening to him. But now- he doesn’t want to do that. Because _this is John_ and he _loves him for crying out loud_ and so he shouldn’t- he should-

He _wants,_ he really does. Because he wants to know what it’s like with someone that actually cares for him; he wants to experiment this particular type of intimacy and he knows some people find sex a great form of comfort, so he wants to know-

But he can’t. He’s breathing harshly now, body tense and that seems to pull John out of his sleep, because the arm around his waist is immediately gone and John springs out of the bed so quickly that it’d be funny under any other circumstances.

But being what they are-

For the longest time, neither of them speak, Sherlock too busy trying to catch back his breath. John is standing by the door, as far away from him as possible, looking stricken. Sherlock hates this; absolutely despises that his body can’t tell the difference between-

“Can you-” he begins, not liking the distance between them, particularly not when John is looking at him like _this,_ “can you come closer?”

John bites his lip, hesitating. Sherlock attempts to glare, but he thinks he barely manages a pitiful glance which seems to work regardless. Once his friend is close enough, he grabs him by the wrist and pulls him so they’re both sitting on the bed.

Another tense silence and John tentatively places a hand on his shoulder, his gaze apologetic. That’s all the encouragement Sherlock needs to climb into his friend’s lap, so they’re embracing as closely as possible.

“I’m sorry,” John murmurs, burying his face in his neck. “So sorry.”

“It’s a perfectly natural reaction,” Sherlock protests softly, fingers carding through John’s short hair. “It’s alright.”

John huffs, but doesn’t comment. Sherlock supposes it’s not quite alright, but he truly doesn’t mind. If he had a better hold of his silly brain- if he had managed-

“Don’t,” John whispers, pulling away a little so they’re seeing eye to eye. “It’s not- you shouldn’t-”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, frustrated. The situation it’s truly messed up, no doubt, but he wishes- “I want-” but voicing it out loud seems too difficult and so instead he chooses to lean down for a kiss. He’s never kissed anyone before and he’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do, so he simply keeps his lips pressed against John’s, hoping the older boy will take the reigns.

John, however, remains perfectly still. His lips are slightly chapped; they feel nothing like Sherlock imagined. There’s a fluttery feeling in his stomach that makes him oddly happy, but the longer John fails to reciprocate, the happy feeling turns to one of dread.

He pushes away, already feeling tears threatening to escape his eyes. This was a bad idea, clearly. He had thought- but he had obviously misread the situation. Not completely surprising, considering his absolute lack of experience on these matters.

He stands up awkwardly, looking at anything but John. He wants to run away as fast as he can, but John is holding him gently by the wrist, his grip firm but not demanding and so he stays rooted on the spot, heart beating too loudly, feeling wrong footed.

“Sherlock,” John says, his tone commanding him to look at him, but Sherlock feels too… raw. He doesn’t- it’s just-

“You don’t need to explain, John,” he murmurs softly. “I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” the other protests, standing up too and so bringing their bodies close together once more. “I- I like you, Sherlock. And if you- if you wanted something… more than what we have, I wouldn’t be adverse to the idea, but considering your situation, I can not-”

“But it’s different,” Sherlock interrupts him, biting his lip gently. “I do- I do want you, John. And if- I think- I think I’d like to know if-” he’s blushing and it’s absolutely ridiculous. All things considered, discussing sex shouldn’t faze him and yet- “I’ve heard it can be quite nice. I’d like to try it with you.”

John sighs, pulling him into a hug. “You’ve just panicked at feeling me get hard while we were sleeping, Sherlock. I don’t think-”

Sherlock huffs. “Yes, well, but- I think- maybe if we’re facing each other- it’s just- maybe I could convince myself that everything is fine. If I could see you, that is.”

John sighs once more, looking at him in the eye once more. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Sherlock nods, something in John’s tone telling him he really ought not to press. “What about a kiss?” he asks, incapable of holding himself back and when John looks at him questioningly, he blushes harder. “I- I told you I’ve never been kissed.”

John seems to consider this for a beat, running his fingers through his hair. Sherlock has to stop himself from purring; he does enjoy the little contact so- “I don’t want to make this even harder on either of us, love.”

And there’s the endearment once more. Sherlock wonders if John notices them and if he does actually feel that way or if it’s simply a meaningless way to address him. It never ceases to amaze him how much he still craves these little tokens of affection, even after everything. It would be so lovely if-

But no. Wishful thinking and these useless, pointless thoughts won’t help him one bit.

“Alright,” he murmurs, his heart feeling heavy. “It’s alright, I understand.”

But he doesn’t. His life is a mess and his heart can’t make sense of everything he’s feeling, but he doesn’t want to argue and he especially doesn’t want to do or say something that might make him lose John.

He couldn’t stomach that.

* * *

 

Turning off his brain has always been a nearly impossible feat. He can’t help himself; he’s always thinking about something. He can try to distract himself with one thing or another, but when there’s something that’s bothering him, his brain goes back to the issue over and over again.

On the subject of John and his feelings for him, his brain refuses to keep quiet.

He wishes their situation wasn’t as complicated, but then he thinks they weren’t meant to be anyway. Even if they both were free, they would have never been able to be together. But things being what they are-

He’s not sure what he wants. He likes being around the other teen and he thinks he would enjoy if they were to be physically intimate, but he also understands John’s hesitation (at least he thinks so). He’s also unsure about his _ability_ to go through it without panicking.

But he longs for the closeness that it could bring and- well, supposedly, the rush of hormones after orgasm is quite similar to the rush of hormones produced by actual love and so-

God. Why is it so difficult?

He sighs, resting his head against the edge of the tube. The water is quickly cooling and he knows he ought to get out before he catches a cold, but he has found being submerged in the water helps him think. He feels more relaxed here; here it’s easier to forget where he is and what has happened to him, the bathroom not that different from the one back home. He sometimes still thinks of his old house and his family and his heart aches, but for the most part-

He thinks he has accepted he’s never going to escape here and so he’s trying to make the best he can of his situation. Which, to be honest, it’s not much except trying to keep his mind perfectly blank most of the time and keeping (or being kept by) John company. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be content with the situation, but maybe he’ll learn to be at peace.

Telling himself it could be worse doesn’t seem to work much, but it’s the only thing he can think of and so he keeps trying to reassure himself.

It might work one day.

* * *

 

“For god’s sake, Sherlock!” There are hands pulling him and Sherlock feels too groggy with sleep to make sense of the voice’s urgency, but he figures he ought to make an effort to pay attention. He feels so tired though-

“No, no, don’t fall asleep on me,” the voice continues, shaking him a little and wrapping him in what he thinks might be a towel. “Come on, we need to warm you up. God, you’re freezing.”

He hums in acknowledgment, although the statement doesn’t seem that important. Sure, he’s cold, but why does that matter? He’s fine, really. Even if his whole body feels a bit stiff and he can barely feel his limbs-

It’s not as unpleasant as some other things he has endured, really. Numbness is, after all, a very welcome feeling.

But his companion does seem worried by his absolute incapacity to articulate a sentence and he gets carried all the way through the kitchen. His mind feels foggy, but he thinks he recognizes the embrace, having gotten quite used to it. Besides, who else would be this worried about him and his health but his dear John?

“God, Sherlock,” his friend murmurs, attempting to make him sit in front of the fire. When it becomes obvious Sherlock’s body isn’t going to cooperate with keeping him sitting straight, he sighs and sits right behind him, wrapping his arms around his body, murmuring angrily to himself.

For the longest time, there’s no other sound but their breathing and the cracking of the fire. Sherlock can feel his eyelids closing once more, now pleasantly warm and dry in John’s arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispers softly, resting his head against his friend’s chest. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

John sighs, running his fingers through his curls as he usually does when he’s thinking about something. Sherlock likes it a lot and it’s the one reason he doesn’t mind having to wear his hair long now. “I should have noticed you were missing sooner. I just- I thought-”

“I fell asleep,” Sherlock interrupts him gently, looking up at him. “I didn’t mean to.”

John’s smile is sad, but it still makes Sherlock’s heart flutter. He knows it’s useless to keep on hoping for something that’s never going to happen, but- “Aren’t you sleeping well?” the blond questions, tightening his grip around his body and Sherlock shrugs.

“As well as ever, I suppose. I just- I got lost in my thoughts, I suppose and sleep took me by surprise.”

John hums, pressing a kiss against the top of his head that makes Sherlock practically purr. He’s embarrassed of the little sound escaping him, but John chuckles softly, the pleasant cadence of his laughter making Sherlock warm up from the inside. “I love you,” Sherlock finds himself saying, without really meaning to, but then, he wasn’t really thinking.

Behind him, John freezes. He realizes his mistake right away, but he finds himself incapable of taking it back. It’s the truth, after all and even if John doesn’t feel the same, he always meant to tell him. He fears the consequences, of course, but since John hasn’t pulled away, he supposes it’s… fine.

He’s careful not to turn to face his friend, though. He’s not sure he can stand whatever he sees reflected on the other’s eyes and this way he’s not pressuring John into saying anything. If he chooses to remain quiet, it’s easier to pretend he said nothing at all.

Minutes pass and no response comes, making Sherlock’s heart clench painfully. He didn’t expect anything, honestly, but the silence is uncomfortable and painful. He wishes he hadn’t said anything and at the same time-

John is moving and Sherlock’s heart stops, before he realizes the other is simply rearranging them so they’re closer and so he can actually see Sherlock’s face. For what feels like hours, but can’t be more than a couple of minutes, John simply stares at him in silence, brow furrowed lightly. Finally, he seems to come to a decision and closes the small distance between their lips, kissing Sherlock softly once.

The younger boy isn’t sure what exactly is happening, but he’s not about to protest. When John pulls away, he immediately chases the other’s lips, trying not to let his desperation show. The second kiss is awkward: the angle is all wrong and Sherlock has no idea what his lips or his tongue are supposed to be doing, but he attempts to follow John’s lead. It’s certainly nice, no way to deny it, and something he thinks he’ll like to do often.

He turns, so he’s facing John now, straddling him. His friend’s breath catches, but doesn’t protest when Sherlock kisses him once more, this time a bit more enthusiastically. They kiss and kiss, until they’re both breathless, their bodies rubbing together, attempting to find a rhythm, although it’s difficult in their current position.

It’s- a tad scary, to be honest. Not unpleasant, of course, but weird and a bit overwhelming in ways he can’t explain. His whole body feels as if on fire, but he doesn’t think he wants to stop burning. There’s a building need inside him that he has no idea how to satisfy, but his moving hips seem to have the right idea and so he carries on like that, all the while kissing John as if there’s no tomorrow.

And maybe there’s not, but he shouldn’t be thinking about that right now.

Hearing John moan and groan with each movement makes him ache oddly, but he’s not sure why. His body feels _fantastic,_ even if in the back of his mind he can’t help feeling a bit nervous and perhaps a tad overwhelmed. There’s something- something-

His brain won’t shut up, but he can’t make sense of the words. The pressure building inside him is calling for release, but he feels- he feels-

John takes that moment to bite softly onto his neck, while cupping his breast and he’s done. For a blissful couple of seconds his mind goes completely blank, his body immediately slumping against his companion. He feels… elated, yes, the hormone rush is certainly incredible but-

John is smiling softly at him, hair all messed up and Sherlock supposes he’s been pulling at it during the whole thing, but his friend doesn’t seem to mind. He looks perfectly content actually and Sherlock supposes he doesn’t look that different.

But reality comes crashing down around them when they hear the door opening and they have to jump away from each other, Sherlock wrapping his discarded towel around himself as quickly as possible and then proceeding to try to look as inconspicuous as possible.

It’s a bitter end for what they’ve just shared, but such are their circumstances.

John offers him a sad smile before telling him he should go get dressed. Sherlock nods, standing up on wobbly legs, feeling terribly cold right away. He needs to get dressed, yes, but the cold he’s feeling has nothing to do with his bare body.

His bare and now unacknowledged soul however-

But things are what they are and wishing for them to be different won’t help one bit.

He must take what he can and treasure it.

It’s all he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> That last scene didn’t go as I had planned it and I’m still unsure if I got it right. As I said, smut (or something resembling it, even if by far) it’s not something I usually write and with the added complication of the situation they’re in… well. I’m not sure if the reactions feel realistic or made sense at all, so I’d love to hear your thoughts on that.  
> The next chapter we’ll have the big climax happening and then… maybe we’ll get a couple of chapters more. I don’t want to complicate things further, but inspiration is tricky and it insists on writing some drama but considering everything that has happened… it just feels unfair, you know? I promised a happy ending and I’m delivering it, dammit!  
> Anyway… thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	11. Hopeless endings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter!  
> I wanted to post this yesterday, since it was my birthday and I always ALWAYS post something on my birthday (mostly because getting kudos and comments makes me much happier than all the gifts in the world) but well… this chapter’s ending is the whole inspiration behind the fic; the whole reason I wanted to write it to begin with and so I didn’t feel like rushing it.  
> That being said, I’m not sure how well the first two scenes work with the rest of it and I’m wishing I had rather included them in the previous chapter, mostly because I think we’re seriously missing Sherlock’s POV in them, but well… what’s done is done and hopefully we’ll get more introspection in the following chapter.  
> Warnings apply as ever, additional warning for violence towards the end (not terribly graphic, but a little)

In retrospective, their little _rendezvous_ might have been the worst decision John ever made.

He should have known better than to give into his selfish desires, but hearing Sherlock telling him he loved him… well. All his logic and good sense had left through the window right away.

But it was wrong. John knows he loves Sherlock, but he’s convinced the feeling isn’t reciprocated. Evidently the younger boy cares, but he has it confused: with everything that has happened to him, he’s just desperate for someone showing him kindness and since John does exactly that-

He took advantage of an abused teen and no matter how hard he tries to reason with himself that that doesn’t make him as bad Lord Magnussen is, a part of him knows that Sherlock’s willingness doesn’t spare him. He should have-

But that doesn’t matter anymore, he supposes. What’s done is done and all he can do now is attempt to make up for his horrible crime. His method, however, is probably too cruel on Sherlock, who attempts to spend even more time with him than he did ever before, also looking for chances for them to be alone.

Pleasure is a tricky thing and it’s easy to mistake the rush of hormones for actual love. Sherlock was already confused about his feelings and now thanks to John’s thoughtless behavior, he’s even more convinced he’s in love.

John wonders if it would be truly that awful to allow him to continue believing so.

But no, that wouldn’t be fair. Sherlock truly doesn’t need being the object of yet someone else’s unrequited lust and even if John does love him-

It wouldn’t be fair. If their situation wasn’t what it was, Sherlock wouldn’t-

He refuses to continue taking advantage of the mess their situation is; Sherlock trusts him and he’ll strive to be worthy of that trust, even if for the moment it means taking a bit of distance from his friend and hurting him in the process, he hopes the other teen will understand.

They both need time to clear their heads, after all.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock seems to take the hint after the second week of John claiming to be particularly busy and so not able to spend any extra time with him. There are no more naps during the day and cuddling is of course off the table too. While confused (and undoubtedly hurt), Sherlock doesn’t demand explanations and simply takes it all in a stride.

It’s cruel, John knows, but he can’t think of another way of fixing his error. If they go back to their previous routine, he’s not sure he has enough strength to keep himself from indulging in Sherlock’s body again (particularly considering the mess his own feelings are.)

The younger teen takes to spend all his free time at the gardens, sitting on the grass and glancing at the horizon. He looks terribly sad and John hates it (hates himself too). He wishes he could come up with something to fix things between them; that he could turn back time and stop this whole mess.

Although, if he could turn back in time, he would probably go back to the moment Sherlock was first kidnapped and stop this whole nightmare from happening to him. Oh, if only-

“You should go sit with him,” Molly whispers softly, startling him. He realizes he has been standing by the window for far too long, staring at his friend a little too intently. “I don’t- I’m not sure what happened between you two, but it’s evident both are miserable. So maybe-”

John shakes his head, suddenly feeling much tired and far older. “I made a horrible mistake. I need- I need to make it up to him.”

“By keeping yourself away?” Molly questions gently, her gaze sad. “You’re only hurting him- and yourself- further. Whatever you did that you feel you need to make up for- this isn’t the answer.”

John sighs, running his fingers through his hair. He knows it’s wrong, he knows it’s not fair, but- “I’m afraid given the chance, I’ll make the same mistake again.”

“Maybe it’s not a mistake then,” the girl suggests, patting his shoulder and offering him an encouraging smile. “The situation is far from ideal, of course, but love knows no boundaries.”

John chuckles humorlessly. “It’s not love,” he protests softly. “It’s desperation.”

Molly shakes her head. “You know him better than I do, but- don’t you think you should let him come to that conclusion himself? You’re assuming far too much, John and by doing so, your doing him- and yourself- a disservice.”

He considers it for a beat; he wants Molly’s words to be true, but- “Go talk to him,” Molly urges him once more, gently steering him towards the door. “In any case, you’ll probably feel better afterwards.”

With a sigh, John heads towards the garden, willing to give it a shot.

He doesn’t think Molly is right.

But he desperately wishes she is.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock spares a quick glance in his direction as he hears him approach, but he makes no move. He continues sitting in silence, playing with the hem of his summer dress.

The wind has messed up his hair, making John itch to rearrange it. He remembers sinking his fingers in the silky curls, pulling gently to get better access to Sherlock’s neck. The memory makes him uncomfortably warm and he quickly berates himself: this is never going to work if he keeps thinking about that.

“You’re done avoiding me?” Sherlock asks, his tone perfectly flat, face blank. His eyes, however, are shining with unshed tears, although that is indeed the only sign of his distress.

“I’m sorry,” John murmurs, gingerly placing a hand over Sherlock’s knee. The other teen watches his hand in silence, smiling sadly when John starts tracing idle patterns over his kneecap. “I just- I don’t think- what you said-”

“You shouldn’t put much thought on what I said, John,” his friend interrupts him abruptly, his voice shaking the slightest bit. “I was- overwhelmed. I found myself incredibly comfortable in your arms and I got my feelings a bit mixed up. It doesn’t mean anything.”

John’s heart clenches painfully. He knew that, of course, but somehow hearing Sherlock saying it out loud- It crushes a hope he knows he has no business on having. “What happened afterwards; I can’t help feeling a took advantage-”

Sherlock laughs bitterly at that. “John, I’ve been raped often enough to know the difference between being taken against my will-”

“Sherlock-”

“And besides, we barely did _anything._ We kissed and rubbed against each other and that’s it. There’s nothing you need to feel _guilty_ about,” he’s angry and upset, face contorted in a pained grimace. “Is that what this is about? You feeling guilty?”

“I- Sherlock, I’d never-”

“I know you wouldn’t do something against my will,” the younger teen argues, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I wanted you to kiss me, John. And I still want- I’d love for you to- to-” he blushes, looking away, biting his lip. “You know what I mean.”

John sighs, running his fingers through his hair and wondering how he ended up in this horrible mess. “I don’t think that’d be wise. Considering… everything-”

“Oh, for god’s sake, John! I’m actually telling you I want you to fuck me, it’s not remotely the same that what happens with Magnussen. He doesn’t care about me and he doesn’t give a damn if he hurts me, but you-”

“Sherlock, I’m not- I’m not going to _fuck you!_ ” John exclaims, more than a little horrified by the prospect. “If I- If we- I’d-” and that’s when he makes the biggest mistake of his existence, but he won’t realize it until much later. He grabs the other boy by the chin, bringing their foreheads together. “I don’t want to _have sex_ with you, Sherlock. I want to _make love_ to you, sweetheart.”

Sherlock’s eyes are more than a little misty and when he closes them, a single tear escapes. “No need to be so sentimental, John,” he murmurs brokenly and John chuckles unamusedly, before kissing him softly once on the lips.

“I don’t want to hurt you, love,” he tells him, one hand coming to cup his cheek gently and Sherlock leans immediately into the touch. “After everything you’ve been through- I’d never forgive myself-”

Sherlock shakes his head, silencing him with yet another kiss. “I know you won’t. And I’m- I realize I might not be- I know it’s likely I’ll panic and I won’t deny I’m afraid, but I do want to be with you, John. More than anything.”

God, this is a bad idea. He shouldn’t- they shouldn’t- it’s just so messed up-

But when Sherlock kisses him once more, all of John’s good sense flees through the window once more.

And it’s about to cost them heavily.

 

* * *

 

There’s a knock on his door and John frowns, wondering what might have happened. The Master has just retired to his chambers and the house is usually quiet at this time of the night. The slaves are already abed and it’s unlikely any trouble has arisen, but then-

He opens the door and finds Mrs. Hudson standing at the other side of the door, looking troubled. She’s sickly pale, twisting her hands nervously and John can feel his heartbeat picking up speed: something is, very obviously, very wrong. “What-?”

“The Master has asked for you,” she tells him seriously, eyes bright with unshed tears. She’s scared and worried about him, no doubt, but for now John can’t bring himself to feel anything at all.

“Alright,” he murmurs, biting on his lip harshly, a detached part of his brain informing him he ought to be panicking, but he’s feeling oddly calm. Things are about to get messy, no doubt, but- “Alright,” he repeats, moving past Mrs. Hudson, who looks in the verge of breaking down crying. A part of him wants to reassure her, but there are really no words to be said.

He knew the day would come. He had hoped- he had hoped that if they were careful enough, discreet enough-

But well. He always knew this day would come.

He squares his shoulders and starts walking towards the Master’s bedroom, steps unfaltering, head held high. He wonders distantly if he ought to be trying to escape, but he’s not alone in this. And while he doubts the Master will be particularly keen on hurting Sherlock as badly as he’s about to hurt him-

Well. Better not to risk it.

 

* * *

 

The sound coming from inside the bedroom makes his steps falter, heart clenching painfully inside his chest. Sherlock is playing a sad melody, the notes seemingly conveying to the world all the pain that can’t be put into words. John hasn’t heard his friend play that often, but when he has, he can’t help to be moved by all the emotion he puts into it.

He’s not scared of death, not really. He made his peace with the likelihood of it being a violent one long ago and so he’s not particularly terrified of what awaits for him on the other side of the door, but he is worried about Sherlock. And the thought that he won’t be around anymore to help him bear with his horrid fate as much as he can-

He forces himself to knock on the door and attempts to keep looking as calm as possible. There’s nothing else to be done; there’s no escaping his fate.

So he might as well face it bravely.

“Come in,” the Master’s voice comes from inside and the second John steps into the room, the music stops. Sherlock is staring at him, looking startled and as he quickly puts two and two together, his expression morphs to one of dread. “I didn’t say you could stop playing,” the Master says pointedly and Sherlock hesitates for a beat, before picking up his violin and restarting his melody.

The whole scene is completely surreal, John thinks. Lord Magnussen is sitting at his desk, attention apparently fixed on the paper he’s revising. He looks pleased with himself and so John guesses he has managed to ruin yet another poor family. He pities the unfortunate souls that have fell into the horrible man’s clutches and thinks that, at least, he’ll be finally free.

But Sherlock-

The younger boy was sitting next to the window when he entered, but now he’s pacing nervously in front of it, eyes fixed on John, his playing unperturbed. There are a million questions reflected in his beautiful eyes, but John forces himself to look away, not sure if he’ll manage to keep his stoic facade if he keeps gazing at his friend. His heart is beating very loudly and he feels a little out of breath, although he hopes it doesn’t show.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, the Master looks up from his papers, a dangerous smile spreading across his thin lips as he looks at John and the younger man can feel a shiver running down his spine. He carefully keeps his eyes trained on the floor, not wanting to look at Sherlock, particularly not now that the boy’s playing has taken a slightly franatic twist, obviously attune with whatever he’s feeling.

“Ah, John,” the Master begins, picking out something from the bottom drawer of his desk. “So nice you could join us tonight,” he continues, placing the object on top of his desk and John can now clearly see it’s a whip. His heart picks up speed and so does Sherlock’s playing. “There’s a very interesting rumor I’ve been hearing and I intend to find out the truth tonight.”

Sherlock’s playing comes to an abrupt stop and John can feel his heart attempting to escape his chest. This is it, then. He takes a deep breath, looking up to hold the Master’s stare, shoulders squared.

Magnussen smirks. “I see,” he says, tone deceptively calm. “Shirt off. On your knees”

John hears Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath and he closes his eyes, wishing he could spare his friend the sight of what’s going to happen, but he knows it’s meant to be punishment for them both. And while he knows he could attempt to put up a fight-

He knows there’s no chance of winning.

So he takes off his shirt and discards it carelessly, before dropping to his knees, head still held high. He’s fairly certain his erratic heartbeat can be heard all around the room, but he refuses to show any fear.

“Ever the brave little soldier,” Magnussen comments off handedly, picking up the whip and approaching him. John holds his stare, willing himself not to look in Sherlock’s direction, knowing he won’t be able to keep his calm if he does. “Such a waste, really.”

The first strike hurts, but not as bad as it could. It’s the lack of practice, John thinks, since the Master had never been a fan of such instrument.

But it doesn’t matter; he’ll get plenty of practice tonight.

 

* * *

 

John manages to keep himself stoically quiet for a surprisingly long time, but all his resolve crumbles the second he hears Sherlock’s whimper. He looks up at his friend then, the younger teen has all but collapsed on the floor, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. He’s scared and in pain and John wishes there was a way he could make him feel better, but-

He notices his skin has finally broken as little splatters of blood land on the pristine carpet and Sherlock lets out a pained wail. Magnussen stops then, apparently admiring his handiwork and John takes a couple of deep breaths, willing himself to recover his calm: it’s just going to get worse, but he refuses to panic.

It’s not like it’ll help, in any case.

He feels oddly detached from his body, though. Oh, the pain is very much real, but it feels- distant, somehow. Like it was happening to someone else. Sherlock’s pain however-

Well, he feels that a little more acutely.

“It’s really such a waste,” Magnussen comments, still not making another move. “But it must be done. You understand why, don’t you, John?”

He doesn’t answer, but he’s not expected to. Magnussen scoffs, the whip hitting John’s back harshly shortly after. God, he’s getting better at it. Probably for the best, John thinks; at least things will be over sooner that way.

He can’t help looking in Sherlock’s direction once more, trying to convey- well, he’s not sure what he’s trying to convey. It’s obvious how this is going to end and there’s no use in thinking otherwise. He truly doesn’t mind death, not that much anyway, but he does mind the pain it’ll cause Sherlock.

He also worries the younger teen will end up blaming himself for it. He wishes they could have spoken one last time freely, but he dares not to say anything in Magnussen’s presence. He won’t risk enraging the man further, particularly because he fears what might happen to Sherlock if he does.

So he holds his friend’s stare, trying to convey that it’ll be fine (although it won’t) and that there’s nothing he should be feeling bad for.

He doesn’t think it really works, but it’s all he can do.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long before all he feels is the pain radiating from his back. There’s quite a bit of blood on the floor now, but not enough for him to believe he’ll lose conscience anytime soon. Oh, the pain is awful certainly, but it’s not bad enough for him to blackout. At least not yet.

He wonders how much longer they can continue like this. Magnussen is likely to grow bored (or tired) at some point, but John has no delusions of being allowed to continue living. His head feels oddly light and he feels his arms are about to give up any minute now, although he’s clinging to the bit of pride still left in him, refusing on giving Magnussen the satisfaction of seeing him collapse in pain.

But there’s a limit to everything. When he finally collapses face first on the ground, he wonders if he’ll finally be blessed with losing conscience. The world seems to be spinning a bit too quickly and the edges are starting to turn black, so he guesses this is it. If it’s only a blackout or actual death, he doesn’t particularly care: anything to escape the pain he’s in.

There are no more strikes coming and so he looks over his shoulder to see what’s happening. He’s not sure when it happened, but Sherlock is now standing next to Magnussen, grabbing the older man’s wrist, whispering something urgently. John is having trouble making sense of the words, anything other than the pain he’s feeling white noise in the back of his head.

There are tears streaming freely down Sherlock’s cheeks as he attempts to bargain with Magnussen. John realizes he’s trying desperately to convince him to stop and the Lord does seem to be considering whatever offer the teen is making. John tries to speak then, tries to warn Sherlock against making bargains with the devil, but the only sound that comes out of his mouth is a broken pained whimper.

Magnussen and Sherlock turn to him, the second looking on the verge of fainting himself. His eyes are red rimmed and he looks sickly pale and John hates that he’s somehow responsible for his friend looking like that.

He attempts to say something once more and Sherlock is kneeling at his side a second later, saying something in a pleading tone, but John can’t make sense of his words. His ears are ringing and the world is turning even darker, but he forces himself not to lose conscience now. While it’d be a blessing to escape the pain, he can’t leave Sherlock when he’s looking at him like this.

Magnussen shoves Sherlock away then, making the teen yelp in pain when his back hits the desk. What’s left of will to fight in John snaps then, hating to watch his friend being hurt and he attempts to stand, but he’s too weak and he’s on the ground shortly after. He feels the heel of the Master’s shoe digging on one of the slashes of his back and he groans in pain, attempting to escape, but incapable of.

He’s distantly aware of the sound of gunfire and then the pressure on his back is gone. He looks up to find Sherlock holding a gun, looking somewhere between horrified and relieved. They lock eyes for a beat, before Sherlock crosses the room in a couple of strides, getting out of John’s sight. His head is still spinning and he feels too weak to try to make sense of what’s happening, but whatever it is, he thinks they’re in quite a bit of trouble.

That’s the last thought that passes through his head before exhaustion finally overrides his will to stay awake and he faints.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?
> 
>  
> 
> You guys remember I said this whole idea came to me in a dream? I have pretty weird, slightly disturbing dreams, don’t I?
> 
>  
> 
> When I first planned the last scene, it had much more dialogue. But when I wrote it, it simply went in a different direction and well… I liked it. I’m not sure if it seems very IC, since they both seem so passive, but I’m thinking of what happened in canon and well… argh. I really dislike Magnussen in canon. He’s not a villain, he’s a   
>  _  
>  bully   
>  _  
>  and that scene rattled on my nerves like you have no idea. So there’s a bit of that in here.
> 
>  
> 
> I wanted to finish this before the year was over, but that’s just not going to happen. I’m not working on Friday, but depending on whether or not my husband is, I might manage to get another chapter ready by then. If not… well, here’s to next year!
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Pretty please let me know what you thought?
> 
>  
> 
>  


	12. Run away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I got a bit stuck with it and then it started flowing and now- well, I don’t know. It didn’t completely go in the direction I wanted, but I do like it. It works rather well, I think, even if I ended up cutting out a lot of the “romance”:  
> Anyway… enjoy?

He had always known there was a gun hidden at the false bottom of the top drawer.

He just never actually _thought_ of using it. Desperate as his situation was, it never occured him he might use it to hurt the man that had systematically and unremorsefully _hurt him._ Now that he has done it though, a part of him keeps wondering _why it took him so damn long._

Not that he has much time to contemplate that, of course.

To say he had something resembling a plan when he made a run for the gun would be an exaggeration. There weren’t many thoughts crossing his mind other than p _rotect John at all costs_ and so for a few seconds, he finds himself without a clue of what to do now. Luckily he snaps out of his stupor quickly enough and hurries to lock the door, knowing it won’t be long before someone comes to see what the commotion was about.

He turns his attention back to the room, quickly contemplating the quickest route of escape. He notices John has finally passed out and he holds himself back from cursing loudly: it’d be easier if he didn’t have to carry his friend’s dead weight, but he’ll have to make do.

They need to get out of here and they need to do it now.

He grabs a couple of thick coats from the closet, along with a few shirts and pants and throws them in the first bag he can find. He takes a quick inventory of John’s wounds and he has to fight down his panic, for he knows the wounds are likely to get infected if they’re not treated soon and also that there’s no way they’ll be able to actually stop for that once they’re on the run.

He quickly pours the water jug that’s always in the room over his friend’s back, thinking it’ll have to do for now. After all, if they get caught it won’t matter anymore, for they’ll both be dead shortly after.

He picks John up, ignoring the way his stomach twists at the sight of Magnussen’s blood splattered all over the carpet. There’s a lot of noise coming from outside the door and it won’t be long before the guards break it down.

He’s sort of counting on that, actually. If the guards are busy otherwise, he has a better chance of actually escaping.

But climbing outside the window with his small bag and his fainted friend proves to be tricker than he expected. He’s not that strong really, but he was hoping that the adrenaline would make up for any lack of actual strength. John might be shorter than him, but he’s definitely heavier and so it’s a bit complicated to maneuver with him.

He manages though, because he must. It’s lucky the house has just one level, because he wouldn’t have been able to climb down a wall. He takes a deep breath and makes a run for the stables, hoping no one will see him, praying the guards are too busy trying to break into Magnussen’s bedroom for anyone to notice his escape.

Oh, if only he had had more time to plan this-

Riding would be the most efficient method of transportation, but it’ll jostle John’s wounds. Still, a cart would be too noticeable and they need to be quick if they’re going to make it to safety. Not that Sherlock has any clue of how they’re going to achieve that, since he doubts there’s a place on earth where they can be safe once the news of Magnussen’s death start spreading but-

He can’t focus on that right now.

A quick look around the stable has him picking a black stallion that looks strong enough to carry them both, while also remaining quite agile. Climbing on top of it while trying to drag John along proves to be his biggest challenge yet, but fear is a powerful motivator. He notices vaguely his heart is beating a little too fast and he’s out of breath, but he has no time to worry about that.

He needs to get away from here, no matter what.

* * *

* * *

 

“Murdered, you said?”

Sherlock forces himself not to react and simply continue with his shopping while he listens to the gossiping pair standing next to him. It’s not the first time he hears people talking about Magnussen’s death, but it’s the first time he has heard someone saying he was murdered.

“-had it coming, of course. Nasty piece of work, he was.”

“Evidently,” the second interlocutor agrees. “It was only a matter of time before one of his victims took care of him.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, willing his hands not to shake as he picks a couple of jugs, trying to decide which one he ought to buy. They’re going to need plenty of water for their trip, but it’s not like they can carry much, even with the help of the small cart he has managed to find.

“Rumor has it he had gotten his hands on the daughter of a minor Lord,” the first man says and Sherlock drops the jug he was holding, but barely notices, his whole focus on the gossiping pair.

“That’s a little… over the top, even for him. Surely he didn’t expect to get away with it?”

The first man huffs. “Who knows? But apparently the family finally decided to… take the matter into their own hands.” Sherlock frowns. That makes no sense whatsoever. “Of course, now that Magnussen is dead, the girl might get a claim on his lands.”

“That’ll be some nasty business. No doubt many people will be displeased; besides, it’s not like he _married_ her.”

Sherlock picks up the dropped jug and makes a face. Now he’ll have to buy it and hope it’ll resist the trip. There doesn’t seem to be any significant crack, but- “Don’t ask me. You know those power thirsty nobles: they always find a way to benefit from a situation.”

He makes his way to the counter, paying for the jug to be filled, along with some salted meat and a few vegetables. It’s far from an ideal diet, of course, but it’s not like they can afford any better.

It was just lucky he had happened to be wearing a few rings that night; otherwise they’d have no money whatsoever. Of course he had to sell them for less than half of their actual price, but desperate times and all that.

He loads his shopping on the shabby cart and spares one last glance in the gossiping pair direction. The men seem to have moved into another subject and Sherlock sighs, wondering why he cares at all.

All that matters right now is getting as far away from Magnussen’s lands as possible.

But as he starts making his way out of town, he can’t help to feel a bit paranoid. He doubts he and John are the only runaway slaves from the household; the moment the news of the Master’s dead started spreading across the house, he has no doubt many of the other slaves took their chance to escape. The guards were too few and they were probably more concerned with what to do about the very dead Lord.

Still, it won’t be hard to put together what happened and so it’s likely there are people looking for them specifically. He’s been careful to cover his face and head as well as possible when he was in town, but any slip now-

He’s not even sure what they are going to do. He had risked a trip to the town because they needed food and John needed medicine (although he hadn’t been able to get that), but now the questions remains of where should they be heading. He had the vague idea of going to his brother once more, but it’s a long trip and he wasn’t entirely sure it’d be worth it.

But with what he has just heard-

If a loophole exists and he does indeed have a claim on Magnussen’s lands, he knows his brother will find it and make the best use of it. That might warm Father up enough for him to allow them to stay, although he wouldn’t bet on it.

There’s another part of the conversation that’s giving him hope, although he doesn’t want to think too positively. But if his brother indeed hadn’t known of his abduction and has just learned what had happened to him-

Mycroft is 24 now, which means he’s old enough to reclaim their father’s title and all that that implies. Even if Father isn’t keen on letting Sherlock come back home, his brother can now outrule him and if that’s the case-

Of course one can never trust street gossip. The Holmes are after all no _minor Lords_ , but the general gist is right, so maybe- maybe-

Does he dare to hope?

In any case, going to his brother might be his only chance. No matter what, Mycroft won’t be cruel enough to let Sherlock face the consequences that murdering a Lord would have (even if it was in self defense. In a sense). He’ll shield him from the worst of it and, more importantly, he’ll help him keep John safe.

Mind made up, he hurries towards their small camp, where John is waiting for him.

* * *

 

John is sleeping when Sherlock finally makes his way back to him. The boy has wrapped himself up in one of the big coats, carefully lying on his front so not to put any strain on his injured back. He had wanted to come along for the shopping trip, but Sherlock had refused. It’s obvious his wounds pain him badly and he hadn’t thought the exertion would do him any favours. Besides, Sherlock is perfectly capable of handling himself.

Or at least he likes to think so.

He starts organizing their meager provisions, shooing the horse away when it attempts to steal an apple. He knows he needs to keep the animal well feeded if he hopes for it to take them all the way to his brother’s, but he also knows they need to be very careful with the little food they have.

He eyes the ropes he bought doubtfully, not sure if he can use them to have the horse pull the shabby cart. The animal certainly won’t appreciate the extra weight, but it was the only idea he came up with for them to be able to carry more stuff. Besides, he’s hoping John will agree to lie down as they travel, because it’s obvious riding is quite painful for him.

He sighs, grabbing one of the coats for himself since it’s getting colder. He’s thankful he at least thought of grabbing some clothes, really, or this whole trip would have been even more hellish.

If they had had time-

But no. He doesn’t think he would have ever shot Magnussen if he hadn’t threatened John’s life. He wasn’t a good man, of course, and he certainly deserved it, but Sherlock isn’t a murderer. His stomach rolls whenever the image of the Lord lying in a pool of his own blood comes to mind and no matter how quickly he manages to push the thought away, the disgust lingers.

He looks at John, who is sleeping peacefully and he tells himself he did the right thing and he would do it again in a heartbeat. Still, he wishes he had had the time to plan this a little bit better. He wishes he had at least had the presence of mind to go back to recover John’s medical bag; it’ll certainly be handy now.

Then again, if he had came back to the house, no matter how careful he would have been, it’s hard to predict what would have happened.

He considers waking John up and then decides letting him sleep a little longer. It’s not like they can actually stop for long when they do and to attempt to get any sleep while riding is a nearly impossible task. Sherlock doesn’t mind; he’s never been one to need much sleep or food, but John-

His companion makes a small pained sound and Sherlock closes his eyes, guilt threatening to swallow him. He keeps thinking that if he had intervened sooner, John wouldn’t be as badly hurt and the actual threat of infection wouldn’t exist. But he had acted far too late; he had let his emotions rule his head and so he had lost precious time, weeping as if he was the one being hurt.

Silly, really.

He needs to clean John’s wounds and he hopes the antiseptic he bought will be enough to keep the threat of infection away, but he worries it won’t be enough. He had wanted to get some antibiotics, but the apothecary owner had told him they didn’t have those lying around in small towns like that: he could get him some, of course, but they’d be costly.

Sherlock had wanted to get them regardless, but they didn’t have any time to waste, so he had figured he would try his luck in the next town they stopped by. He’s not sure how much longer his funds will last, but he supposes he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there.

His home is at least a couple of months of travel away; he’ll take one day at the time.

He lies down and closes his eyes, telling himself he’s not going to fall asleep.

He’s wrong.

* * *

 

“Dammit!”

Sherlock wakes up, looking around sleepily, his mind still not fully catching up with his body. There’s a sense of anxiety in the back of his mind, but his body is being uncooperative due the abrupt waking up.

“Sorry,” John murmurs from somewhere behind him and Sherlock forces himself to start paying attention to his surroundings, despite his eyelids insistence of falling close once more. “I just-” he gestures vaguely and that’s when Sherlock notices he’s attempting to clean his own wounds with the antiseptic he managed to find earlier.

“Give me that,” he urges, slightly annoyed. “You’re wasting precious resources.” He snatches the bottle away from John and gestures for him to sit down so he can get to work. The older teen sighs, turning his back at him and letting him start cleaning.

“I didn’t want to wake you up,” his friend says, sounding a bit annoyed himself. “God knows you haven’t been sleeping and I wasn’t about to-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snaps, annoyed at the other’s tone. “You could have waited-”

“I’ve done this plenty of times-”

“To yourself?” Sherlock demands, taking a slight vindictive pleasure as John hisses when he drenches with antiseptic a particularly deep wound. The second John lets out a pained moan though- “I’m sorry,” he murmurs softly. “I’m sorry. I’m just-”

“Tired,” John supplies calmly. “We both are, I think.”

Sherlock shrugs, although he’s aware the other can’t see him. “We can’t afford to rest much, though,” he murmurs, his fingers trailing lightly the places where the skin is already healing. “I got a cart, though. I was thinking you could lie down-”

“Sherlock-”

“You need to rest,” he interrupts sharply. “You’re in far worse shape than I am.”

 _And whose fault is that?_ a voice inside his head questions lightly and he bites on his lip harshly. This is not the time for recriminations, really. “John, just- just let me take care of you.”

His friend sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want you to overwork yourself,” John replies quietly. “I- You need to rest too.” He turns around slowly, eyes eager. “I don’t want you fainting on me, love.”

Sherlock shakes his head and John’s hand comes to cup his cheek, taking the breath away from his lungs. They haven’t talked, not really, simply concentrating on what their next move should be. The tender contact however-

But no. He can’t afford any distractions now. “Time to get moving once more,” he says, standing up abruptly, surprising John with his cold tone. The blond blinks confusedly, but recovers quickly and stands up too, hurrying to cover his chest.

They stand still for a beat, staring at each other. “You do know-” John begins, taking a step towards him and Sherlock finds himself stepping back and looking away. “Sherlock,” his friend insists, grabbing him by the wrist but not coming any closer. “I don’t know what- this isn’t your fault; you know, right? I mean, you don’t have to-”

But it is. It all is, even if John can’t see it. “We need to get moving.” And he attempts to pull away, but John pulls him close, wrapping his arms around him and Sherlock notices he’s shaking, although he’s not sure what to make of that.

“I don’t know what’s going on inside that big brain of yours,” John whispers urgently against his ear, a hand caressing the nape of his neck gently. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but you- what you did- you don’t have to-”

Sherlock pulls away, not wanting to hear whatever John wants to say. He isn’t quite sure what he’s feeling, anyway and he doesn’t need John’s clumsy attempts of reassurance.

He’s fine, it’s all fine. They just need-

They just need to get away. Everything will be fine afterwards.

Won’t it?

* * *

 

_You murdered a man._

_He wasn’t a very nice man,_ Sherlock argues with himself, but a part of him refuses to acknowledge it. He wasn’t thinking when he grabbed the gun, but given the chance to go back in time and redo it-

He’ll do it again. And much sooner, to be honest.

Still, there’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that won’t leave him alone. He’s not- regretful, exactly, but he does wonder if there was anything he could have done differently to stop all of this from happening.

He wonders if all these idle musings are the result of far too many sleepless nights and promptly dismisses the thought. He has no time for this nonsense, really. There are much more practical matters to think about and besides, what’s done is done.

It’s not like he’s particularly religious and has any concerns about his immortal soul. He’s been in Hell already anyway, so it’s not like it matters.

He lets his fingers dance over John’s arm, which is wrapped tightly around his waist. They’ve got back to spooning to sleep, but there’s something now that wasn’t there before: a sense of uncomfortableness that Sherlock doesn’t know how to ignore and so it doesn’t let him completely enjoy the contact.

John either doesn’t notice or he’s far too tired to care.

Sherlock sighs, carefully rolling onto his side so he’s staring at the stars. By his calculations, they should be arriving to his brother’s lands in a week at most and he’s ashamed to admit he’s more than a little nervous about how that encounter will go. He keeps on hoping that Mycroft won’t turn his back on him, particularly not now when John-

He closes his eyes and forces himself to take a deep breath as he can feel himself panicking. Most of John’s wounds have already healed, but there’s nasty gash in the middle of his back that refuses to close and now is starting to swell. If it is indeed infected-

But he mustn’t think about that. It’ll do nothing but make him anxious and that won’t help at all. However-

“I thought we agreed you would try to sleep for a while?” John murmurs softly, eyes still half closed. “This isn’t healthy, Sherlock.”

“I’m worried,” the younger teen confesses. “I can’t sleep.”

John hums, rearranging himself so he’s resting his head on top of Sherlock’s chest. “It’s fine, Sherlock. We’re almost there.”

Yes. And wouldn’t it be a delicious irony if he was to lose John now? Now, when they’re so close to making it? “Hey,” John whispers, grabbing him gently by the chin. “None of that. I’m fine, I promise.”

“Your temperature keeps on climbing and the gash keeps on swelling. I swear I saw some pus-”

“Sherlock,” the older man interrupts, placing a finger over his lips. “Listen to me: I’m fine. I promise.”

The younger boy makes a face, but doesn’t protest. It’s of no use, after all. “I just- I can’t lose you.” He can feel a tear streaming down his cheek and John sighs, before rearranging himself once more so they’re face to face.

“And you won’t,” he swears solemnly, placing a chaste kiss against the other’s lips. “After everything, you won’t be getting rid of me so easily. You’re stuck with me now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock chuckles humorlessly. “Gladly,” he murmurs, kissing his companion once more, just as chastely. “I’ll gladly spend the rest of my life with you, John. The rest of eternity, in fact.”

John eyes soften, as he runs his fingers through his hair, but he doesn’t say a word back. Sherlock knows it’s silly, but the silence stings. He told John not to take his love declaration seriously, but it’s clear as water he did mean it, isn’t it? And John- John cares, evidently, but maybe it’s too much for him. Maybe he’s been too- eager.

 _Now’s not the time for this_ , he reminds himself sharply and kisses John once more, before closing his eyes. “Go back to sleep, John,” he says. “We have a long day ahead from us.”

His friend hums and goes back to his initial position, letting out a pained noise that he attempts to make it pass as a sigh. Sherlock closes his eyes a bit more tightly and wills himself to relax.

He might not be able to sleep, but with any luck his mind will stay blank enough for him to rest a little.

It’s all he can ask for, really.

* * *

* * *

 

There’s a group of soldiers coming their way.

A distant part of his brain suggests they ought to hide, but the rest of his body refuses to listen. They been traveling for what feels like forever and they got caught on a sand storm the night before and they’re now mostly out of water and food. John’s fever has gotten worse overnight and Sherlock doesn’t think the horse can keep on going any longer.

They’re as good as dead, really.

So he sits quietly, waiting for the inevitable. They’re in his brother’s land already, but he doesn’t think that’ll tip the scales in their favour. It’s not like anyone is about to listen to him and believe he’s truly Lord Holmes’ brother.

Sister. Whatever.

He honestly can’t bring himself to care. For all of Mycroft’s “understanding” he never made an effort to correct people about _that_ and Sherlock supposes it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s just so tired-

He closes his eyes and allows himself to fall asleep. It won’t be long before they’re spotted by the group and he doubts he’ll get any chance to sleep then.

At least he doesn’t think so.

* * *

 

There’s someone shaking him by the shoulders and Sherlock grunts, not really wanting to wake up. The voice sounds concerned though and the touch is quite familiar, so he forces himself to open his eyes and peer at whoever is bothering him.

“What now, Greg?” he questions, his eyes falling close once more. “What does Mycroft want now?”

“Oh, god, it’s really you,” the man whispers, awed. “You’re alive!”

Of course he’s alive. What-?

And that’s when everything comes crashing down, all his memories rushing forward. He must have been truly tired and lost all conscience of his surrounding and of what was happening, but this- this-

His hands fly to the other man’s face, reassuring himself that he’s indeed real and not an hallucination produced by his tired mind. But the guard seems solid enough and he certainly looks older than the last time he saw him, so he’s inclined to believe- “It’s you. It’s really you.”

“God, Sherlock!” the other man exclaims, pulling him into a hug and Sherlock lets him, despite every bone in his body protesting against it. “You’re really alive. We thought- after- oh thank god,” the hug is turning bone crushing, but Sherlock can’t find it within himself to protest. “You’ll be fine, now. I promise.”

Sherlock has bigger concerns than his own well being, though. “John. We need to get John to a doctor.”

The older man frowns, but seems to catch on quickly enough, glancing at the practically unmoving figure lying on the ground. He pursues his lips, obviously not very hopeful of the other teen’s chances, but nods. “Alright. Alright, let’s- we’ll see to it, worry not.”

Sherlock nods, suddenly overwhelmed. He realizes he’s been always praying for a miracle and this is the answer to his prayers.

So he collapses on the other man’s arms and starts crying in earnest.

Is it finally over, then?

_No, it’s not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> Does the chapter feels a bit all over the place? I meant to write a bit more of introspection, but as usual the plot ran away from me and this happened. I’m just hoping it doesn’t feel overly rushed.  
> There was quite a bit more of plot I wanted to write here- namely, Sherlock and Mycroft’s reunion. But this has turned quite long already, so I figured I’ll save it for the next chapter ;)  
> I was thinking we just had one more chapter after this, but now I’m doubtful. Happy endings aren’t meant to be written in a rush, after all!  
> But I’m hoping to have this finished soon The new season is just making my skin crawl in all the wrong ways and that’s not very conductive for writing, I don’t think.  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	13. Safety (or something like that)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I rather like how it went, but I kept wondering if it’s being overly simplistic. Then again, there are certain things that we’d do better seeing them through Sherlock’s POV so… I don’t know.  
> Enjoy?

John wakes up feeling incredibly beat up. His whole body aches in ways he can’t quite explain and even attempting to keep his eyes open feels like a challenge. However, when he realizes the room he’s in is not even remotely familiar, he attempts to sit up, adrenaline pumping in his veins.

“I’d advise against that,” a voice comes from his left side and he looks in that direction to find a man standing by the window. He’s tall and lean, an air of power and intelligence radiating from him. He has a bit of an accent, but John can’t quite place it.

“Who are you?” he questions, ignoring the man’s advice and managing to sit up. The man eyes him boredly, a look of utter contempt on his face.

“I’m the man who had your life saved; isn’t that enough for you?”

“Sorry, but I’m not in the habit of trusting people just because,” John argues calmly, although he’s feeling quite a bit worried now. There are bits and pieces missing from his memory, but he recalls enough. Where is Sherlock? Is he alright?

The man rolls his eyes dramatically, before stepping closer. There’s something- familiar, about the way he moves, but- “Sherlock will be most displeased,” the man comments off handedly and John’s heart skips a beat. “We couldn’t pry her from your side for the last week and when we finally convince her to eat something and take a short nap- you wake up. Most inconvenient, really.”

“Him,” John corrects plainly and continues, before the other has a chance to protest. “Is he alright, then?” John finds himself asking and the man arches an eyebrow curiously. His heart is beating very fast and he still doesn’t trust this mysterious stranger, but all he cares about right now is Sherlock’s well being.

“Well enough, I suppose,” the man responds, with a vague wave of his hand. “Overworked, mostly, but you know how she is: once she gets an idea in her head-”

“He,” John corrects once more, annoyance building up. The man observes him, now apparently more interested than before.

“I must say, I find your vehemence in correcting me most baffling,” he looks thoughtful for a couple of beats, staring at John a little too intently. “Not many dare to. And those who dare- well, they don’t usually live long.” His smile is sharp as a knife and John glares.

“Not the first time I’ve been threatened,” John argues back. “I’m not scared.”

“Perhaps you should be,” the other says, almost off handedly, inspecting his nails. “You’re a runaway slave, John. What’s more, you’re a runaway slave responsible of the murder of a Lord. I’d be careful about who I upset.”

John gulps, but forces himself to hold the other’s stare. “If you don’t want me correcting you, maybe you should show my friend a little respect.”

The man smirks. “Friend, you say? A little more than that, I should think.” John is well aware of the blush spreading across his cheeks, but refuses to feel embarrassed.

“That’s none of your business,” he shots back and the man chuckles, sounding honestly amused.

“Oh, you’re an interesting one. I can see why Sherlock likes you,” he smiles once more, before turning around dramatically and heading towards the door. “Rest now, John. Your _friend_ shall be with you shortly.” And with that he’s out of the room, throwing one last smirk over his shoulder.

John glares at the door and lies down once more.

Bizarre as the whole situation is- he’s going to need to be rested, in case they need to start running once more.

So better do as the man said.

* * *

 

The next time he wakes up, there’s someone sitting next to the bed, fast asleep. John smiles fondly at the familiar figure of his friend, who is snoring lightly due the uncomfortable position he is in. While he usually wouldn’t be inclined to wake Sherlock up (he doesn’t sleep enough, that’s for certain), he doesn’t think the particular position he’s in is very conductive for profound sleep.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, shaking his shoulder lightly, ignoring the way his own muscles protest at the sudden movement. “Sherlock, wake up.”

The other boy blinks sleepily, looking around. It’s evident he hasn’t been sleeping, for there are dark bags beneath his eyes and he looks far too thin; thinner than ever before actually. John’s heart constricts, thinking it’s all his fault and offers him a small smile when he looks in his direction.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, voice full of wonder. “You’re awake.” His smile is bright like the sun and a second later he’s climbing into bed with him, careful not to jostle him much. “I was so worried,” he murmurs earnestly, eyes a little misty. “I thought- the doctor said-”

“I’m alright,” the older boy replies gently, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, eying it a bit morosely. “You cut your hair.”

The other teen blushes, pulling away a little. “I- I never liked wearing it long,” he confesses softly. “Do you- You don’t like it?”

He sounds so honestly worried that John immediately berates himself for pointing out something so silly. “It’s fine,” he assures him and since Sherlock still looks doubtful, he adds, “I just- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” he blushes, stammering a bit, unsure of how to explain his odd attachment to his friend’s hair. He understands why he felt like cutting it, though.

Sherlock offers him a shy smile, before carefully arranging himself so they’re lying down on their sides, facing each other. John smiles, continuing his petting of Sherlock’s hair, eyes raking over his friend’s form. He’s definitely lost weight, his cheekbones more prominent than ever. He’s used to seeing Sherlock wearing dresses, so his thinness is even more noticeable in the fitted pants and shirt he’s wearing. When he places a hand over Sherlock’s hipbone he’s not surprised by how sharp it is, although he’s a bit surprised by the little noise Sherlock makes then. They exchange a look and the younger teen blushes furiously, which just makes John smile some more.

They don’t talk, though, contenting themselves with enjoying the closeness. John is vaguely aware of his wounds, but he suspects he’s been drugged with something. He’s careful not to move much though, so not to put any extra strain on the healing slash.

“The doctor wasn’t very hopeful,” Sherlock murmurs suddenly, gaze sad. “Luckily, Mycroft proved himself not to be completely useless.”

John smiles at him. “So we made it? We’re at your brother’s?”

Sherlock hums. “He managed to force me away from your side for a couple of hours and when I come back, he tells me you’d woken up,” he huffs, annoyed. “Bet he made a nuisance out of himself.”

John blinks, thinking. “That was your brother?”

Sherlock smirks. “Obnoxious bastard, isn’t he?”

John frowns, not certain if he ought to say something. But Sherlock has picked up something is wrong and now looks worried, so he figures he might as well tell him already. “I just- he said- he kept referring to you as- as a girl.”

For a beat, there’s no other sound that their breathing and John worries he has managed to upset his friend. To his surprise, Sherlock simply lets out another annoyed huff. “As I said, obnoxious bastard. He’s- well, I won’t say he’s precisely understanding, but he’s respectful. It’s just- I think he was testing you.”

“Testing me?”

The younger boy shrugs. “He’s not- my brother doesn’t usually trust other people’s impressions. I guess he was trying to make his own mind up about you. He’s... distrustful.”

John supposes he understands. To an extent, at least. “He’s been good to you, though? Are you- are you alright?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. “So like you to worry about me more than about yourself,” he murmurs, running his fingers down his arm. “I’m fine, John. My brother- well, he hasn’t quite explained why he hadn’t been looking for me, but then I haven’t really talked to him, other than to demand he got you an actually competent doctor.”

“Sherlock-”

“Your well being is my priority right now,” he interrupts him sharply. “Once you’re fine... we’ll see.”

John sighs, not liking the plan. He’s not entirely certain he trusts (and he certainly doesn’t like) Sherlock’s brother. But he has given them shelter and seen to his treatment, so he supposes he can’t be that terrible. Of course, he must answer why he hadn’t seen to his brother’s rescue earlier, but for now they can wait.

In any case, it’s entirely Sherlock’s call. He can understand not wanting to get further disappointed on your family and so he thinks it’s perfectly natural that Sherlock hasn’t asked any questions just yet. He’s probably too tired and weak to want to hear any more bad news.

But he’ll have to ask, eventually. And John will be there, to help him cope as much as he can.

It’s not much, he knows, but it’ll have to do.

* * *

 

John’s sleep is restless, part due the pain his injuries cause him, part because he’s in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by people he’s not convinced they can trust. Sherlock seems to, though and that counts for something, but he still thinks it wouldn’t be wise to let his guard drop.

Sherlock insists on remaining with him at all times, ignoring his own body’s needs and so they’re back to sleeping together, since it’s the only way he can get the other boy to do it. They also share his meals, because Sherlock is too stubborn to listen to any reasoning.

It’s not ideal, but it’s not terrible either. John does enjoy having the other boy in his arms, although he’s not entirely sure that’s a very good idea as he doubts the brother is particularly thrilled with such development. Then again, John is still very injured and not up to any sort of exertions, no matter how pleasurable they promise to be.

And there’s of course also the question of what Sherlock _wants_ now. John finds hard to believe he’ll continue wanting him once he gets his life a bit more under control and while he wants to enjoy what they have now-

He can’t help wondering if they have a future.

The door cracks open and he finds himself sitting up in a flash, ignoring the pain his injury causes him. The pain makes him dizzy, but he forces himself to pay attention, since there’s no telling what might happen if he gets distracted.

“You’re an awfully mistrustful man, John,” Mycroft comments off handedly, strolling into the room calmly, as if it wasn’t the middle of the night and he had just awoken his _guest._ “ I think I liked you better when you were half dying.”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demands, his head peeking from beneath the covers, forcing John to lie down once more and continue spooning him.

The older man watches them in silence, eying John’s arm around Sherlock’s waist with something between annoyance and worry. “I’m pressing my advantage, brother mine. The doctor tells me you refuse to talk to her.”

Sherlock murmurs something under his breath, hiding beneath the covers once more. “I’m fine.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Mycroft argues calmly, pulling the covers away from them both and John hisses at the sudden chill while Sherlock presses himself back, searching for warmth. “And since you seem inclined to ignore anyone but John here, I figured I’d enlist his help.”

Sherlock glares up at his brother and John pulls the covers back, since it’s bloody freezing. Also, he’s having quite an embarrassing reaction to Sherlock pressing closer to him and he really doesn’t think his brother needs (or wants) to witness that. Distracted as he is, it takes him a few seconds to process what the other man has just said and then turns his full attention to his friend.

“Sherlock?” he asks gently, but firmly and the younger teen mumbles something. “Sherlock, why have you refused to talk to the doctor?”

“I’m fine!” the younger man argues vehemently, sitting up then and glaring at both of his companions alternatively. “There’s nothing to worry about. I don’t need a doctor... prodding me and treating me as if- as if-” there are tears shining in his eyes and he hurries to look away, stubbornly attempting to look calm. “I’m fine.”

Mycroft sighs, looking more frustrated than anything, although John is inclined to think he’s hiding all the worry he’s feeling. “What you went though-”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Sherlock yells, suddenly standing up. “I don’t _EVER_ want to talk about it! I’m fine! It’s in the past and _I’M FINE!”_

Mycroft and John exchange a look and the younger man thinks he might have judged the Lord a little too hastily. Then again, he was quite an ass when they first met. “Sherlock, you need to see the doctor.”

“I said-”

“Ignoring it won’t make it go. I know- I know you don’t want to be reminded of it, but Sherlock, you need-”

“I-”

“I know you’re hurting,” John interrupts him, attempting to stand up regardless of how his back aches and throbs with each movement. “I know it seems- cruel, to make you face what happened to you, but in the long run-”

“But I-”

“There are also practical, physical things to consider,” Mycroft interrupts. “If you want to- if you’re not quite ready to discuss all that happened, you should at least let the doctor examine you. We don’t know-”

“It’s not like it matters,” Sherlock argues darkly. “I think it’s a little too late for that. Even if- even if I had suffered any internal, lasting damage, there’s nothing to be done for me now. And also I don’t think- physically, I’m perfectly fine.”

They exchange another look and Sherlock picks on that, biting his lip gently. “Sherlock,” John tries again, lightly placing a hand over his friend’s elbow. “Please.”

The younger teen huffs, but John can tell he’s won this round. “Alright,” Sherlock murmurs finally, a tad dejectedly. “I’ll see the doctor tomorrow.”

“Good enough,” Mycroft says, his tone flat, face perfectly neutral. But it’s all a facade, John can now see. “I’ll leave you to your rest, then.” And with that he turns on his heels and exits the room without looking back.

Once they’re alone once more, Sherlock offers John a shy smile before climbing back on bed. “Your back-”

“It’s fine,” John dismisses with a wave of his hand, thinking that for all the things they went through, they’re both terribly _fine._ “Come here. Let’s sleep a bit more.”

Sherlock hums, rearranging himself and letting John wrap his arms around him once more. It doesn’t take long before he’s back asleep, evidently still too tired due all the extra strain he has put himself through lately.

John watches him in silence, one of his thumbs tracing light circles over his arm. He can’t believe he’s been thinking about their future without considering all the trauma Sherlock is going to need to deal with. He of course will aim to be a better friend now, but he can’t believe he selfishly-

“I’m here,” he promises softly against his friend’s hair. “I’ll be by your side in any way you need and I- I’ll keep you safe from now on.”

And that’s a promise he intends to keep.

* * *

 

“We were lead to believe Sherlock had been killed. When the… kidnappers demanded a ransom, Mummy wouldn’t hear a word against it. Father wasn’t pleased, of course, but he agreed eventually, if only to get me and Mummy off his back.” Mycroft leans back on his seat, looking thoughtful. “Or so we thought. As I much later learned, he took the money for himself and made an... agreement with Lord Magnussen.”

Sherlock shivers at the mention of the horrid man and John pulls him closer, rubbing his arm comfortingly. “We were presented with a corpse- disfigured, yes, but with similar complexion and so we- we thought-” he interrupts himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Sherlock’s eyes are bright with unshed tears once more, but he keeps himself stoically quiet. “I didn’t want to believe it. I kept looking. I ordered-” his voice breaks once more and Mycroft clenches his jaw in annoyance. The guard standing next to him pats his shoulder lightly and the Lord offers him a tight smile. “Gregory here- he was tasked with not leaving a single rock unturned in his search. But we never- Well. It’s not that strange we found no clue of your continued existence, considering who had you.” He pursues his lips, annoyed once more. “If it wasn’t for Lady Adler-”

“What?” Sherlock asks, perking up a bit.

Mycroft sighs. “Apparently, she suffered of a guilty conscience and she eventually confessed to me- to think that you had escaped, only to be sent back to that wolf’s den-”

Sherlock shrugs non committedly, curling closer to John. The blond sighs, resuming his soothing movements over his friend’s arm. “Did you order a rescue, then?” he questions, not entirely gently and Mycroft clenches his jaw once more, looking away.

“I couldn’t. I- You can’t simply accuse a Lord of such an horrid crime, not without actual proof. Magnussen wasn’t stupid and he had been careful; even if he had been parading my little brother in front of his guests, he knew none of them would dare to testify. And the whole court process- that would have been a nightmare.”

“So you- what, exactly?”

Mycroft sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “So I waited. I was nearly 24 and I knew the moment I was old enough I could seize my father’s army and go rescue my brother. Of course I would have to make it seem I was just power hungry, but-”

“It didn’t come to that, though,” Sherlock murmurs. “We escaped before that.”

Mycroft hums. “The same day the news of Magnussen’s death came through, I was getting ready to march to his lands. I had even gotten Lady Adler to play the doting fianceé and send a battalion of her own,” he chuckles at this, although he doesn’t sound particularly amused. “As usual, my little brother had rendered all my plans useless.”

Sherlock huffs, but they exchange a fond smile and John’s heart feels a little lighter.

“What about your stepfather?” John finds himself asking, thinking that while he doesn’t completely justifies Mycroft’s lack of action before, he supposes he understands. To a point.

The Lord smirks then, although there’s a dark look on his face. “Are you familiar with the myth of Prometheus, John? The bit about the eagle?”

John’s stomach turns unpleasantly and he can see Sherlock is also sicken by the image. Still- “He might have got off a little too easily.”

Mycroft looks startled for a beat, before laughing merrily. Next to him, John can feel Sherlock’s smile. “You’re right, of course,” Mycroft says, looking pleased, offering his brother a kind smile. “I do think I’ll come to like you, John. Between you and I we might actually get Sherlock to start caring a bit more about his own life.”

The teen huffs, but he’s smiling. John smiles too, tightening his grip around his friend and he looks up at him, eyes earnest and John feels like the breath has been stolen from his lungs.

Oh, he loves him so-

And he’ll make his damn best to keep that smile on his face for the rest of eternity.

* * *

 

“There’s a little something I wish to discuss with you, John.”

The teen nods, his gaze fixed on the hall Sherlock has just left through to go see the doctor. He has a suspicion of what this is about and while he can not say he wants to have this conversation, he supposes it needs to happen. “I realize my brother loves you dearly,” Mycroft says, tone gentle and John’s heart clenches. “And he might even fancy himself in love. But with everything that happened-”

“I know,” John murmurs, still refusing to look at him. “He’s confused.”

There’s a long pause and when John ventures looking in the other’s direction, the older man is frowning. “Perhaps,” he agrees after another beat. “Also, he’s a Lord’s son. You understand, don’t you?”

John nods tightly, ignoring his breaking heart. Mycroft pats his shoulder awkwardly, before turning around and gesturing for his guard to follow him, so leaving John alone in the room.

The teen closes his eyes and tells himself he’s not going to cry.

He didn’t think it’d end like this (in fact, he had some darker scenarios in mind, so in a way he’s been blessed anyway), but he had always known he and Sherlock weren’t meant to be together.

Some stories are just not meant to have happy endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha!  
> I’m ridiculously proud of that last sentence. I know it’s silly, but I’m proud of it!  
> That being said… of course this isn’t one of those stories, mostly because I’m not that kind of writer but also because I promised, dammit! And canon is far too hurtful for me to want to torture us all further :P  
> That being said- well. I think I might be able to wrap this up in the next chapter, but maybe not. There are a few things I still want to address, but we’ll see how the next chapter goes and well… we’ll see ;)  
> I like the way I’m handling things, but I’m worried how well it’s coming across. The subjects are… not my usual, as I’ve said and I keep worrying it feels overly simplistic. So, thoughts on that?  
> Let me know what you thought? and thanks for reading!  
> Also, on a slightly unrelated subject, I wanted to let you guys know I’m participating on the auction on tumblr organized by [FandomTrumpsHate](http://fandomtrumpshate.tumblr.com/); all the donations go to charities, so it’s all for a good cause! You can find more info on the link above, as for my own auction I still don’t have a link, but you should be able to find it [here](https://fandomtrumpshateofferings.tumblr.com/archive)  
> once it has been updated. So if you guys would like to bid for a work of mine… well ;)  
> Again, thanks for reading and for all of your support!


	14. Uncertainty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! It didn’t go as I expected (it went far away from it, actually) but well… I think it works. In a horrible, twisted way it works.  
> Warnings apply as ever.  
> Enjoy?

The place looks pretty much abandoned and Sherlock supposes that’s true enough. There’s a mess everywhere; doors thrown open carelessly and the hundreds of shelves inside each room, once carefully arranged, are now in a complete estate of disarray. It makes something within himself ache and he rubs his breast bone absent mindedly.

He continues his way through the deserted and messy halls, though, mindful of his steps. It won’t do to trip on something and end up losing it due carelessness. Maybe he’s not quite ready to take a careful look around and put everything back on its rightful place, but he thinks he’ll do it soon.

The box on his hands though-

The Mental Palace is supposed to be a simple memory technique, a method he designed to keep stock of all the things he learned and thought might be useful later. Over the years it grew and grew and became a little cluttered, but he still always found his way around it. On these last three years though-

He has always found useful this technique of his, of placing his memories in a neat box for later revision. Now he still thinks it’s useful, because it has allowed him to “hide” said box in the back part of his mind and ignore it gleefully. Oh, he  _ knew  _ it was there, but as long as he didn’t open it-

He reasons with himself he didn’t have the time for it earlier; not when he and John were on the run and his friend was so hurt and sick. Not even later, when they were at his brother’s home, since he still wasn’t quite sure where he was standing and if he could actually trust Mycroft or not. And now-

Now is probably the time to open the box and deal with its contents. But then, maybe he could carry on ignoring it forever; surely it wouldn’t hurt? People always say you can’t run away from your problems forever, but maybe-

_ Just for a while longer _ , he thinks, while he places the box back in its dark corner. He’s going to need to revise it sooner or later, but he must admit he’s too scared right now. Everything is _ too fresh  _ and if he opens that box-

Well, he can’t tell for sure if he’ll be able to deal with it.

So better to wait. For a while, at least.

Time heals all wounds after all, doesn’t it?

 

* * *

 

The doctor is gentle and doesn’t make him actually tell her anything, so it’s not as bad as he feared. It’s not exactly comfortable being examined so thoroughly and when the doctor orders him to undress he might panic a little, but overall-

It’s fine. It’s perfectly fine.

As he predicted, there’s nothing physically wrong with him, although he can’t deny it’s a relief to hear it from someone else. In any case, most of the damage he suffered was in the early years, when he kept on trying to fight Magnussen off. Later, it just-

Well. The point is that any damage he suffered has long healed and during his- escape, he suffered no real injury, despite the dark bruise on his back from where he had hit the desk after Magnussen pushed him away from John. So yeah, there was obviously nothing to worry about.

And then the doctor asks him about any pregnancies/miscarriages and he can feel his stomach turning unpleasantly. He immediately shuts the lid of that particular box firmly, nails digging into the skin of his palms to distract himself with the physical pain. He tells the doctor he had been dutifully taking neem tea every morning (well, after John  _ suggested  _ it) and the doctor thankfully leaves it at that. He remembers the taste of the mercury going down his throat and he thinks he’s about to be sick, but luckily the doctor dismisses him then and so he hurries out of the room, forcing himself to take deep breaths and not start hyperventilating.

He doesn’t actually remember much of that particular…  _ episode,  _ but his heart starts beating madly and his hands feels all clammy when he thinks about it. He remembers there was a lot of pain, but what really makes him feel like throwing up is the memory of realizing what the lack of his monthly blood meant.

He had been scared beyond words, not knowing what to do. He thinks that was one of his lowest points while he was a slave and just to look back to it-

He rests his back against the wall, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. His chest aches oddly and so he rubs on it absentmindedly, reminding himself he’s safe now and that no one can hurt him.

“Sherlock.”

He jumps, startled and immediately scowls, turning to glare at his brother. Mycroft is staring at him with a mix of worry and curiosity that makes him feel self conscious. His brother is a master of keeping a straight face, never letting his actual thoughts show and yet-

He finds himself being pulled into a hug and while he finds the gesture odd, he can’t help to relax in his brother’s arms. When he was a little child and the world seemed like too much, he remembers going to his brother for support. Mycroft would gather him in his arms and tell him silly stories and make him laugh and forget everything going on around them.

Of course things have changed quite a lot and he can’t actually remember when was the last time his brother hugged him, but-

“I’m sorry,” the older man whispers, holding him tight. “I failed you, Sherlock and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make it up to you, but I can promise you this.” He pulls away a little, so he can look at him in the eye. “No one is hurting you ever again.”

It’s not an easy promise to keep, but Sherlock does know his brother.

And he never makes empty promises.

 

* * *

 

The one thing that hasn’t really changed about him, is how easily he gets bored. The first few days after John has fully recovered, they spend them outside, Sherlock eager to show John the house and the nearest town. John indulges him, as he always does, not protesting once despite Sherlock dragging him from one place to another. But as the days pass and his friend soon becomes acquainted with their new surroundings, Sherlock promptly grows bored and starts looking for new things to do.

John doesn’t seem to mind and is always willing to go with whatever Sherlock wants. It’s certainly nice to rediscover all these places from his childhood with a friend (an actual friend!) by his side, but he fears the novelty will wear off eventually.

He must admit to himself that he also fears what will happen then. Back at Magnussen’s, they really didn’t have many options of what to do and where to go, not much choice of companions either. But now that they’re free-

Well. What if John decides he wants to spend more time on his own, doing- whatever he chooses to do? What if he decides that Sherlock’s company is no longer necessary and-

Maybe he’s overthinking it, but he can’t help himself. He loves John and he doesn’t want to lose him, but he’s not exactly sure how to go about  _ keeping him.  _ They were pretty much stuck with each other before, but now-

That’s no longer the case, is it?

And John’s been so- distant, lately. Maybe the older boy doesn’t notice it, but Sherlock does. He pulls away from his embrace sooner and he doesn’t spoon him at night (although they still sleep together). There are no more innocent casual touches; those which Sherlock was so used to that now he feels the lack of them like a physical pain. 

There had also been no more kisses, although he had been willing to blame that on John’s injuries. Now that his friend is mostly healed though-

He’s not exactly sure what’s happening and what he should be doing, feeling way out of his deep. He never had a friend before and now that he has one, he doesn’t want to lose him. And he would also like for them to be more, although he’s not exactly sure how to go about that either. Lines have been blurred and their new found freedom means that all their previous  _ arrangements  _ are no longer in force.

And he has no idea where that leaves them.

 

* * *

 

“A suitor.”

Sherlock repeats the word a couple of times more, just trying to make sense of it. But it still makes no sense whatsoever and he suspects it’s not going to, no matter how many times he says it out loud, so he stops trying.

Mycroft keeps his face perfectly blank, nothing betraying whatever he might be feeling. He had dropped the news in the middle of dinner and had simply carry on eating, as if he hadn’t dropped a bomb at his little brother’s feet.

A suitor.

“I- How did this happen?” he finds himself asking, more baffled than anything. “I never- other than Lord Moriarty, no one has ever showed much interest in me, particularly with my  _ issues.  _ And now that I’ve been…  _ tainted,” _ he spits the word, frustration building up inside him. “Not even that will spare of having to marry some self absorbed Lord?”

“Don’t say that, darling,” his mother interrupts gently, patting his hand lightly. “You’re not tainted.”

He  _ knows  _ that but he also knows how  _ nobles think.  _ The fact that he’s no longer a virgin should weigh heavily against him, it should have rendered him unsuitable for marriage-

“After a long… discussion with the King and the Court,” Mycroft explains calmly, not looking at him. “They’ve agreed it’s your right to claim Magnussen’s lands. And considering how close they’re to my fianceé’s own territory, I was thinking maybe you should be the one to inherit these ones. Of course, while you’re still underage, I’ll be the one in charge, but since the wedding isn’t happening any time soon, I’m no particular rush-”

Sherlock isn’t really listening anymore, though. If he inherits his father’s lands, anyone who marries him will be getting his father’s title. Of course now there’s going to be a long line of  _ suitors,  _ not at all interested in him but in his newfound status.

“No,” he utters darkly, a shiver running down his spine at the thought of having to stomach once more an unwanted touch. What’s worse, this time around he’d actually be expected to  _ carry children  _ for his husband. “No. You can’t do that to me,” he realizes he’s pleading, but he doesn’t particularly care. His pride doesn’t matter on this particular case. “You promised you’d keep me safe.”

“Sherlock-”

“No!” he shouts, standing up. Mummy is saying something, no doubt trying to get him to calm down, but his whole focus is on his brother, who is staring at him intently. His face remains perfectly blank though and so Sherlock can feel his heart sinking. “Mycroft, please. I don’t care about any of this. Politics, power; it’s all meaningless for me. I just want to be left alone.”

Mycroft sighs, “you’re a Lord’s daughter, Sherlock. You ought to act like it.”

He growls, turning around and heading towards the door, ignoring Mummy’s cries for him to stop. Once at the door, he turns back to his brother, glaring. “I’m not a Lord’s daughter. I’m nobody’s  _ son  _ and I won’t have anyone else touching me against my will  _ again.  _ I’d rather die first.”

And with that he storms out of the room, making sure to slam the door behind him.

He means what he has just said, though.

He’d die first.

 

* * *

 

Normally he finds it annoying that John isn’t  _ allowed  _ to dine with his family and him and has to dine on his own, normally in his bedroom, but tonight he’s thankful for it, since it means he can go straight to him.

John seems startled at his sudden appearance, but Sherlock doesn’t even want to imagine how devastated he looks when his friend first reaction after taking a good look at him is immediately standing up and pulling him into a tight hug.

He’s crying before he even notices, his body shaking with the force of his despair. His carefully stocked memories have been unleashed and everything just  _ hurts _ . He holds onto John as if his life depended on it and maybe it does, in a way. Without his friend’s presence, he’s not sure what he’ll be doing now.

He’s not sure how much time they spend like that, but finally they make their way to John’s bed and they lay down, John still holding him close. He’s still crying, but now the tears stream mostly silently down his cheeks. John keeps rubbing a hand over his spine, whispering soothing words against his ear, making him feel warm and protected. It’s an illusion, of course, but-

What is he going to do now? He doesn’t- he had assumed he would be fine now. He knows that being a Lord’s  _ son  _ there are certain expectations to be met, but he had already made his position clear rewarding marriage: even before this whole nightmare began, he had refused to even consider it.

And Mycroft had always given him the impression he wouldn’t press the issue. It didn’t matter before; even when his brother married, Sherlock wouldn’t be inheriting their father’s lands or title. But now Sherlock is some sort of-  _ widow  _ (and god, isn’t that the most awful thing ever? Magnussen never- he just  _ used him,  _ Sherlock was in no way  _ related  _ to him), he has lands and a title that his brother can take over, but he can’t keep their father’s lands then.

Well, technically he could, but Sherlock is guessing it’s too much of a risk for the Crown. If Mycroft was to take control of Magnussen’s lands, along with Irene’s and their father’s, he’d be far much richer and more powerful than the Crown.

And so Sherlock is stuck with a position he never wanted and that leaves him so terribly  _ vulnerable.  _ Now he has no choice but to actually marry and have children and-

He realizes he’s going to be sick just a few seconds before he actually vomits and so he manages to avoid soiling the bed, but just barely. John continues rubbing soothing circles along his back, whispering sweet nothings and promising it’s going to be fine.

But Sherlock knows better.

 

* * *

 

He can’t bring himself to explain to John his new dilemma, feeling too emotionally drained to attempt to even speak. His friend however, doesn’t press, simply holding him and humming softly so to lull him to sleep.

It’s nice, being in John’s embrace and he’d rather not move ever again. He hadn’t been sure of where their relationship was heading, but he was hoping  _ somewhere.  _ Of course there were a million things to discuss and he had known the road wouldn’t be easy or  _ pleasant _ but now-

Now all hope of a future seems to be lost and he’s not sure what to do. He thinks about running away (again) and while that’s not likely to be particularly pleasant, he thinks he’ll rather spend the rest of his life living in not-so-good conditions than to live surrounded by luxuries, but trapped once more. And who knows? Maybe he and John could make a decent living somewhere, making enough to get by.

And he knows John will come, regardless of where they’re standing. He won’t leave him alone while he’s in trouble and they’ll figure out their relationship later. He’ll probably agree there are more pressing matters to focus on.

He’ll need to plan this escape a little bit better than the last one, though. Pack enough food, water and clothes to get them by for a while. Of course it’s likely they’ll have to travel far so they won’t find them (although he very much doubts Mycroft will be very inclined to look too hardly for him) but-

He closes his eyes, curling closer to John, allowing himself to be lull to sleep by his friend’s warmth and his soothing humming. There are many things he needs to figure out, but there’ll be time for it later.

For now, better to rest.

He’ll need a clear head, anyway.

 

* * *

 

John doesn’t ask any questions and Sherlock has no words to describe how incredibly thankful he’s for that. After everything he’s been through, you’d think this is  _ nothing  _ to him, but it’s, in fact,  _ everything.  _ Because just when he thought he was finally  _ safe  _ and more importantly,  _ free _ , this happens, shattering all his hopes of a brighter future.

He should know better by now, of course. Happiness is a nebulous concept that’s out of his reach- it’s always been like that and it’ll continue to be like that and he’ll better get used to. It’ll save him from a lot of heartbreak in the future.

Then again… hope is such a  _ human  _ thing. And against all odds, despite being proved wrong over and over again, the human race keeps on hoping.

It’s illogical, but it’s perfectly natural.

He sighs, as he surveys their little cart filled with provisions. It won’t be easy to go unnoticed, but he’s technically not a prisoner, so it’s not like the guards have orders to stop him if they see him wandering about. Once Mycroft gets wind of it of course, things might turn a little more complicated, but maybe his brother will show him enough mercy to let him run away without having him tracked and brought back. It’s a long shot, of course; Mycroft is nothing if not terribly fond of  _ traditions  _ but maybe-

But maybe he’ll take pity on him. Is it so hard to understand he can’t stomach this fate? He couldn’t when he was much younger and so terribly  _ naive,  _ he won’t be able to take it now, when he knows so much more of the world.

He sighs, staring at the horizont. He must confess he’s not exactly eager to leave, but he knows he must. He can’t imagine going through the motions of meeting his  _ suitors,  _ being expected to act politely and charming and eventually, to choose a partner-

He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his breakfast down. He made quite a mess of John’s bedroom the previous night and the maid hadn’t been particularly thrilled, even though John had offered to help cleaning. He’s at the stables now and it won’t be such a hard mess to clean, but still-

Better to keep the food in. He’ll need his strength, after all.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” John’s sudden appearance startles him a bit and he jumps, his heart picking up speed. He scowls at himself, frustrated with his lack of self control and John simply looks at him worriedly, eyes sweeping over his body, looking for any physical sign of what might be wrong.

“Yes,” Sherlock utters as confidently as he can, even if he’d admit to himself that he’s not sure. He’s certain he doesn’t want to marry and that he won’t be able to choose a husband from his  _ suitors _ but he’s tired. Tired of running, tired of being afraid.

But these are the cards that he has been dealt and he’ll play them as best as he can.

 

* * *

 

“You’re leaving, then?”

Sherlock sighs, not feeling up to the challenge of having this particular conversation with this particular person. John, sitting behind him on the horse, tightens his grip around his waist a little and the younger teen feels immediately comforted. Of course, if things take a turn for the ugly, he very much doubts they actually stand a chance against the only actually capable guard of his brother, but-

“Yes,” Sherlock answers simply, because he figures telling the truth might the best way to go about this. Greg sighs, running his fingers through his short hair, sparing a quick glance to the cart and then turning to look at Sherlock once more.

“I shouldn’t let you go,” the guard tells him very seriously and Sherlock nods. Greg has been around since he can remember and he does like and respect the older man, but they both know it won’t be enough to convince him to do as he says. “Where are you going?” he asks gently and Sherlock shrugs.

“Away,” he replies, all too aware of John shifting behind him, ready to spring into action if needed. He rather hopes it won’t be needed, since he knows that won’t end well for them, but-

“Does this have to do with Lord Wilkes’ visit?”

Sherlock scrunches his nose in displeasure. No wonder Mycroft omitted to mention  _ who  _ exactly this mysterious suitor was. “Apparently,” he says nonchalantly and the older man sighs once more.

“Sherlock it’s just- would you really rather go back to be on the run and live in dangerous and precarious conditions than marry?”

Behind him, John inhales sharply, tightening his grip once more. Sherlock glares and Greg offers him a sheepish smile, but he doesn’t seem particularly contrite. “Sherlock-” the guard tries to reason once more and the teen shakes his head angrily, not wanting to listen.

“I didn’t exchange a prison for another,” he utters darkly, sitting up straight, puffing out his chest. “I won’t be forced to submit to another man’s whims for the sake of luxuries.”

Greg sighs, rubbing his temples tiredly. “It doesn’t have to be like that, you realize? I mean, look at your brother-”

“Just because my brother has managed to find a woman willing to marry him and leave him alone, turning a blind eye on his  _ preferences, _ ” and he can’t help the smirk that comes unbidden to his lips as the older man blushes. “It doesn’t mean I’ll do the same. I simply refuse to go through the charade of marrying someone I couldn’t care less for, particularly when there’s someone I actually love.”

He can feel John tensing further behind him, but he forces to keep his eyes on the guard. “Surely you can see-”

“No, I don’t.” He closes his eyes, willing himself to take a deep breath and say what he’s thinking. “For three years, I endured living with a man that I despised. I endured his touch and his lust for the sake of keeping myself alive and I hated it and myself every second of every day. I was nothing but a toy and yet now I’ve been declared some sort of _widow,_ ignoring the fact that _I murdered the man so I could be free._ And now, thanks to someone else’s greed, I’m expected to simply forget all about that and accept a fate that has been imposed to me for the sake of _my blood._ Do you imagine I was the only slave Magnussen ever raped? Why then must I receive a compensation _I do not want or need_ and that only puts me back into another jail? A prison is still a prison, even if made of gold.”

Greg is watching him in silence, looking thoughtful. “It’s horrid, I know,” he agrees softly. “But you can’t-”

“I can and I will!” he announces, frustrated, gripping the horse’s reins a bit tighter, getting ready to get it run. The guard raises his hands in a conciliatory manner. 

“Please, Sherlock. Just- talk to Mycroft. I’m sure you can figure out something.”

“My brother-”

“Was driving himself insane with worry over you ever since you were first kidnapped. He won’t take it well if you go missing once more.”

“Oh, how thoughtful of you,” Sherlock sneers. “You concern yourself with my brother’s well being but will not spare a thought to my own? I was the one out there, suffering a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone, so don’t you dare to tell me to think of what me leaving will do to someone else!”

He realizes he’s breathing heavily and John has a hand on his arm, tracing circles over his elbow. His chest hurts and he honestly just wants to be done with this-

“Come back,” Greg urges him. “You’re in no state to be running away. For your own sake, Sherlock, stay.”

“I won’t agree-”

“I know,” the older man interrupts him. “And I promise you won’t have to. Please.”

He can’t. He shouldn’t. Why should he trust anyone? But at the same time- “What do you think?” he questions softly, looking at John over his shoulder. His friend looks worried, more than anything and perhaps a tad pained. 

“It’s your choice,” he murmurs softly, lips placed very closely to his ear. “I’m with you till the end, whatever you choose.”

He should run while he still can. He has no reason to trust his brother, he knows it’s likely it won’t end well. And at the same time- “Alright,” he murmurs finally, nodding stiffly. “I’ll stay for now. But I won’t-”

“I know,” the guard repeats once more, smiling sadly. “No one will force you to anything.”

Sherlock has to chuckle at that.

Wouldn’t that be nice for a change?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?
> 
> I feel that there’s a lot of actions and not enough dialogue. I’m not sure if that makes it a little…  _ boring  _ to read. I really didn’t mean to add yet more drama and angst to this (these poor babies deserve to be happy, damn it!) but well… I did want to include this piece of plot bunny and it ran away from me (as they usually do). Still, this should get solved soon.
> 
> Soonish. A couple of chapters at most, I think.
> 
> But I’m really unsure about how well this works. Does it feel too much like angst for angst sake? Let me know your thoughts! I am considering rewriting the last part, but I’d like to know your opinions.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	15. Imperfect solutions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… here’s a new chapter. I fear it might be all over the place, but well… hopefully it’s not that bad? (although I would appreciate any constructive criticism you may have!)  
> Enjoy?

Sherlock is quiet for the remaining of the day, apparently lost in his own thoughts. John doesn’t press for anything, figuring he needs some time to sort through everything that has happened. Just yesterday things seemed to be going well enough and now-

He sighs. No wonder his friend was such a mess the day before; it must have been quite a blow to hear he might end up in a similar situation than the one he just escaped. He does think they should have gone ahead and run away, but he can tell Sherlock is tired. He’s been through far too much for someone so young; it’s no wonder he’ll cling to any hope of finally getting a better life.

He knows it wouldn’t be easy out there for just the two of them, but he’s also quite convinced they could make it work. He had been willing to step back and not pursue a romantic relationship with Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean he’d ever leave him on his own when he needs him around. 

He rubs his temples tiredly, trying to make sense of his own thoughts. He had gotten the impression that Mycroft did care for his brother, but evidently he had been mistaken. When the older man had  _ kindly reminded  _ him that he was  _ far beneath  _ Sherlock’s station, he hadn’t imagined-

Honestly, can’t he see just how much marrying someone  _ just because  _ would hurt Sherlock? And has he taken a good look at the younger teen? Does he honestly believe he’s going to find someone willing to marry him and leave him alone?

John doubts it, although he supposes it’s not impossible. 

Still, it feels wrong. After not being able to make any choices of his own for so long; it’s not fair to demand of him to give up his free will once again. Just because there are certain expectations attached to his social status-

God, it’s so messed up.

But there’s nothing for it, he supposes. They’ll have to work their way around it.

Hopefully, they’ll figure something out.

* * *

 

He gets woken up by a piercing cry that has him springing out of bed, ready for a fight, heart beating entirely too loudly. He looks around the room, searching for a treat but finds nothing at all, which makes him frown. He then turns his attention to his friend and his breath gets stolen away. 

“Oh, love,” he murmurs gently, gathering Sherlock in his arms as the younger male continues shaking. “It was a nightmare. It’s fine, you’re safe.”

Sherlock shakes his head vehemently, hiding his face against his chest. “Not true,” he whispers brokenly, clinging to John desperately. “Not anymore.”

John closes his eyes, squeezing him tighter. Dear god, how could this happen to him? Isn’t there a limit for how much hurt a person can experiment in a lifetime? It’s just not fair!

The door opens abruptly, making them both jump. A couple of guards come in, checking the room for threats, but John ignores them, his whole focus remaining on his desolated friend. Since the room is secure, the guards step out once and John continues rubbing the other’s back, whispering sweet nothings and empty promises in a desperate attempt to make him feel better.

When he looks up, he finds they’re not alone once again.

“What do you want?” he demands darkly, glaring at the older man. Mycroft narrows his eyes at him, obviously annoyed at his tone, but apparently not wanting to make a fuss about it.

“I heard my little brother scream,” he responds just as darkly. “I was concerned.”

“You have a funny way of showing your concern,” John spits and the Lord glares, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“I’ve been very considerate with you, John; you did look after my brother when I failed after all. But that doesn’t mean I’ll continue to tolerate your lack of respect-”

“Respect is earned,” John replies simply. 

“I’m Lord Holmes and I won’t-”

“Brother mine, you do remember what happened to the last Lord that threatened John, don’t you?” Sherlock interrupts, pulling away a little, tone deathly serious despite the fact that he’s still crying.

John chuckles at that, even if it’s a bit bitterly. The situation with Magnussen had gotten out of control, honestly. If either of them had had the time to think things through, it wouldn’t have ended up as it did.

Which he supposes is a blessing, actually.

Mycroft glares some more, but John barely notices, eyes fixed on his friend. He’s a frightful mess, eyes red rimmed and tears and snot covering half of his face. Still, with his back straight and head held high, Sherlock looks quite regal.

“This is ridiculous, Sherlock,” the older man begins, scrunching his nose in displeasure. “I understand you might be a little reluctant-”

“A little reluctant?!” John demands, surprising both brothers with the force of his anger. “How dare you?! Haven’t you seen what you’ve done to your brother?”

The Lord sighs, rubbing his temples, as if John was the one being deliberately dense. “It’s what is expected. You might find it hard to understand, but Sherlock and I were born with  _ obligations.  _ You can not simply ignore-”

“After everything he’s been through-”

“You both seem to be under the impression that freedom to make choices is an actual thing,” Mycroft interrupts darkly. “Sorry to disappoint, but it’s not.” When John opens his mouth to argue, the older man hurries to carry on. “Some things can’t be avoided, no matter how desperately we might wish they could.”

“So you’re saying I should just… give up?” Sherlock asks gently, not looking at him, eyes lost in the horizon. “You’re saying there’s no way to escape my fate? That I was always… destined to a life of misery and so I should just… deal with it?”

Mycroft sighs, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. “When you say it like that-” he sighs once more, running his fingers through his hair. “What would you have me do, Sherlock?”

“Only what you promised,” the younger teen replies evenly. “I know I have duties and responsibilities and I didn’t- I didn’t expect to live in a happy bubble for the rest of my life, but I expected to be allowed to make my own choices.”

“You have a tittle of your own now, little brother. Those come costly.”

“But I don’t want it. I never did.”

“Sherlock-”

“Is there no way Sherlock could- I don’t know- renounce to it?” John interrupts, feeling his own desperation raising. “Aren’t Magnussen’s lands supposed to be some sort of… compensation for the hell he had to go through? Why should that continue to make him miserable?”

Mycroft remains quiet, apparently thinking about it. John knows next to nothing about politics and he doesn’t particularly care to learn; those things aren’t for people like him. But maybe-

“Technically, the lands were given to Mycroft,” a new voice interrupts from the door and John turns to see the guard that stopped them earlier that day. “You’re the one who wants to give Sherlock the responsibilities-”

“I can’t marry Lady Adler and keep hold of my father’s and Magnussen’s lands,” Mycroft interrupts darkly. “Suitable fianceés are terribly hard to find, so you can see why I’d be reluctant-”

“So you’d rather sacrifice your brother?” John demands and Sherlock pats his arm soothingly, no doubt fearing he might do something reckless.

Mycroft glares. “And why exactly is that?” the guard interrupts before the Lord can say whatever he’s thinking. The three of them turn to look at him, confused. “I mean, I understand why the Crown wouldn’t want that,” he hurries to clarify, when Mycroft looks about to protest. “But you have to consider you were technically planning to invade Magnussen’s lands, which would have left you with just as many titles and the Crown wasn’t inclined to attempt to stop you because-”

“They’d rather not make an enemy out of me.”

The guard nods. “So, if you were to marry Lady Adler and cling to the titles and lands you already have- you’d look like an awfully greedy bastard, but no one would make much of a fuss. At least I don’t think so.”

Mycroft is tapping his fingers against his knee, lost in thought. “It’s not seemingly,” he murmurs, sparing a quick glance in his brother’s direction. “It’d be heavily frowned upon.”

“Yes, but who will question it? You know nobles: all greedy and power-hungry. It’ll suggest you’re not as level headed as they thought, but- isn’t that a better option than forcing Sherlock into something he doesn’t want, no matter who you might find for him?”

Sherlock is nodding along, if a bit warily. “It could work,” he murmurs, hesitant, eying his brother desperately. The Lord doesn’t look back though, still lost in his thoughts.

“It’d leave Sherlock vulnerable still, though,” he says finally. “If I was to die without an heir- a likely scenario considering there’s very little chance one of Irene’s lovers will manage to knock her up since they’re entirely the wrong sex-”

“And if you really  _ really  _ want to make it impossible for anyone to ever  _ consider  _ Sherlock suitable for marriage, even out of convenience” Greg asks, his tone light despite the sadness reflected in his eyes. “You could always let the maids gossip about how he’s been sleeping with a  _ peasant, _ ” he hisses the last word, although he’s obviously amused by the idea. Why exactly John isn’t sure, but he doesn’t appreciate it anyway. “You know how nobles are about  _ that _ .”

“It’s not like that,” Sherlock hurries to clarify, a slight blush on his cheeks.

Greg arches an eyebrow and the teen promptly blushes. John frowns, not entirely sure he understands the plan fully. Before he can asks though, the guard continues once more, “as for heirs- well, I’m sure Sherlock and John here can figure that out on their own.”

Sherlock is looking somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed, so John is willing to let that comment slip. It’s not something he thinks they really ought to be joking about, but Sherlock doesn’t seem upset (although he’s a bit tense) and that’s all he cares about right now.

When he turns to glance at Mycroft, the Lord is staring at him intently. He’s frowning a bit, but he mostly looks thoughtful. He looks at Sherlock once more, who is still glaring at the guard, turning redder with each passing second.

“It’s not completely fool proof,” Mycroft says after a long while. “One must never underestimate people’s greed but I suppose- it might work.” Sherlock is smiling now, evidently relieved and John can’t help to smile to, grabbing his friend’s hand and squeezing it. “A baby would really come handy,” the older brother adds and although John can feel Sherlock tensing further (so does he, to be honest, the image of a pale and shaking Sherlock taking forefront in his mind) neither of them argues the point further.

There’s much that needs to be discussed, but it’ll probably be for the best that they have that conversation in private.

So for the time being, he’ll let it pass.

* * *

 

“We could still run away,” he tells Sherlock later, once they’re on their own once more.

The other teen remains quiet, face hidden against his neck. John sighs, running his fingers through his friend’s now short hair. It had been foolish to think that just because they managed to escape Magnussen, life was about to turn  _ easy,  _ but he hadn’t been expecting this sort of nightmare again.

“I’m a second child,” Sherlock murmurs softly. “I was never going to inherit anything, so I was supposed to be able to escape marriage easily. Father didn’t like it of course, but ultimately it was Mycroft’s decision as my- well, technically guardian. I thought- I always thought-” he sighs, curling closer to John. “I didn’t relish the idea of being alone, but I couldn’t imagine wanting to spend my life with someone. I never thought I’d met someone I’d actually like and so…” he waves a hand vaguely, face still pressed against John’s neck. “And now it just feels- so very wrong. It’s not only that I’d be tied to someone I wouldn’t care for, it’s also that I- I- I’ve been trapped for so long, always thinking that if I just could make it out of there- and it was all for nothing? I can’t accept that. I can’t imagine- Even if I was as lucky as Mycroft and found myself a fiancé that had no interest in me and/or my body, I can’t stomach that farce. I just want to be left alone.”

John hums, pulling him closer. “We could leave. I- I could never give you a life like this, and of course things aren’t exactly easy for the  _ regular people,  _ but maybe- maybe it’d be better than this. Always having to look over your shoulder, wondering if you’re about to get stabbed on the back out of  _ greed.” _

“I don’t fear poverty,” Sherlock says quietly. “But I- this is my family, John. I want- I don’t-  _ I’ve missed them.  _ And I know it sounds crazy and-”

But it doesn’t. John knows a thing or two about dysfunctional families and how hard it’s to cut ties, no matter how tremulous the relationship is. Sherlock isn’t reluctant to be poor, he’s reluctant to be on his own. Even if he technically wouldn’t be- “Whatever you want,” he whispers against the top of his head. “I’m here. And I’ll stay at your side, whatever you choose.”

“I don’t want you to feel- you don’t own me anything, John. If you- if you want to leave-”

“What?”

“It’s a lot to ask, I know. And I’m not sure  _ where  _ you were hoping our relationship will head, but I understand this might be asking too much-”

“What the hell are you talking about?” John interrupts sharply.

“If we stay-” Sherlock begins, gulping audibly. “My brother is right. There’s only so much rumors can make for us and a child-”

John stares at his friend, feeling slightly horrified. “Sherlock, we can’t-”

“I understand,” the younger boy hurries to reassure him. “I understand it’s a lot to ask, but-”

“No, not that!” John exclaims, frustrated with himself and his lack of eloquence. “I mean- you don’t want that. After- after the last  _ incident,  _ I think- this isn’t the time to be even  _ considering that.  _ You need- I don’t think you’ve really come to terms with what happened, you can’t simply shove all your experiences beneath a rug and force yourself-”

“We don’t have time for that,” Sherlock hisses, pulling away. “It’s really not that difficult, John. We’re both young and relatively healthy-”

“Sherlock I won’t- I won’t force you, nor will I let you force yourself to endure my touch-”

“Oh, John, we’ve been through this!” the teen exclaims, sitting up. “I want you! It’s not-”

“You might, but you’re not ready for that.”

“Shouldn’t that be my call?” Sherlock demands angrily. “Why do you think you get to make decisions on my behalf? Why would you know better than myself what I can do and what I can’t?”

“Sherlock, please don’t do this,” John pleads softly. “If I- I couldn’t stomach- I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know you wouldn’t-”

“But I would. If we do this and- I couldn’t live with myself if you regretted it. And you will; trust me love, you will. You don’t want this.”

“ _ I want you,” _ Sherlock mutters darkly. “And I really don’t care for the other option. Maybe it won’t be- maybe it’ll be hard, at first, but it’s far better than any other option. At least with you I know you’ll try to make it easier for me, that you’ll take care of me during and afterwards. At least you- you care for me.”

“I love you,” John says and Sherlock looks up at him, eyes bright with unshed tears. “And that’s why I won’t do it.”

“John-”

“We need time. You need time. And we have it; maybe not that much, but more than what you seem to think,” he slides closer to him, pulling him into a light hug. “There’s no need to push yourself into anything.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest and John silences him with a glare. “Trust me on this, dear. Just- give it time. There’s a lot you need to process and you’ll do yourself no favors by rushing into something you’re not ready for.”

Sherlock looks displeased, but doesn’t protest further, allowing John to pull him back into bed so they’re cuddling once more. John sighs, feeling the other boy’s tension and wondering if things will ever actually get easier.

He fears the answer is no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh. Thoughts anyone?
> 
> I think I might have bite more than what I can actually chew. I’m fearing it’ll end up feeling rushed, because I think this plot might need a bit more of work- but I don’t know how exactly to work it. Oh, damn it all…
> 
> Well.  _ If  _ I can figure it out, we only have one more chapter to go. If I can’t- I don’t know how many more we have in front of us :P
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought?
> 
> BTW, remember the auction I told you about? [Here](https://fandomtrumpshateofferings.tumblr.com/post/155747762717/ylc-fth-contributor-page)’s the link for my bidding page. Remember, it’s all for a good cause and I’m willing to write practically anything… as long as it’s not smutty, because I’m hopeless with that ;)


	16. Attempts of moving on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m sorry for the late update but well… I had a hard time working on this particular chapter and so allowed myself to get distracted with my new (far more cheerful) fic. I’m still not convinced I managed to get the reactions right, but I’ll let you be the judges of that.  
> Warnings apply as ever.  
> Enjoy?

Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

_Deep breath. In and out._

Six. Five. Four. Three.

_Deep breath again. In… and out._

Two. One.

_Better?_

Sherlock shakes his head, anxiety still crawling at the back of his throat. He thinks he might be shaking, but it’s a little hard to tell.

_Start again._

Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

_Open your eyes._

Six. Five. Shake of head. Four.

_It’s fine. It’s all fine._

Deep breaths, deep breaths. Forcing air into his lungs. It hurts like hell, but somehow to stop breathing would hurt even worse. Three. Two.

_Open your eyes._

He does. The room looks even more unorganized than when he began and he sighs, running his fingers through his hair. He’s beginning to think this is a useless exercise: he should just lock the door and throw the key away.

_That won’t work in the long run._

Sherlock glares at the mental image of his friend and John offers him a sad smile he’s entirely too familiar with. He sees it every day, at every hour. He’s tired of it; he hates it with a dark passion. He doesn’t want to be pitied, but-

_Relax. You’re working yourself into another anxiety attack._

He sighs, closing his eyes and taking another deep breath before opening them again and looking around the room once more. His memories are a mess and he knows he must sort through them if he’s ever going to recover fully from the horrible ordeal, but he finds himself constantly panicking. It’s ridiculous, really: he’s better than that, stronger than that. The memory of what happened and of the man who hurt him so badly shouldn’t keep shaking him to the core, particularly not after-

**_Bang._ **

He shivers, his stomach heaving. God, the memory of shooting Magnussen shouldn’t cause him this reaction; after everything he endured while captive, he should feel some- gladness at the thought of the man’s death, but-

_Deep breaths, deep breaths. Easy there, easy. Shooting a man- it’s not easy._

No, it’s not. Even if he did it for his own sake, even if there was no other way-

But no, he should go in order. Organize the older memories. Analyze them, mourn his loses, accept the past in order to move on. It’s an exercise on self torture, honestly, but it needs to be done. Pretending it never happened won’t actually make it go away.

Little by little, he’ll overcome his past.

Little by little, he’ll recover.

After all, he’s the one who’s still alive.

And he refuses to keep on living under the shadow of a monster and his horrid doings.

* * *

 

The morning light filters through the half closed curtains and Sherlock blinks awake, wondering what time is it. His whole body feels like lead: he hasn’t had a decent night of sleep in what feels like a lifetime. He’s been attempting to sort through the memory boxes of the last three years, but he’s having a hard time with it. His heart stops painfully in his chest whenever he peeks into any given box and he spends a ridiculous amount of time trying to calm himself down.

Both Mycroft and John have suggested maybe he’d find it easier if he talked to someone about it, but Sherlock thinks that’s the most ridiculous idea ever. He’s always been able to handle things on his own; he doesn’t need anyone peeking into his brain, attempting to decipher his thoughts.

He rubs his breastbone absent mindedly, attempting to chase off the lingering pain. It’s funny how emotional pain might resonate on the body and if he had slightly more presence of mind, he’d be trying to analyze that, writing all his observations down. As things stand though-

He sighs and it turns into a yawn shortly after. He _is_ tired, but he knows he has things to do today. Despite Greg’s assurances that the regular noble would want nothing to do with Sherlock after hearing the gossip about him sleeping with a _peasant,_ they’ve been receiving a ridiculous amount of “visitors”. While Mycroft has already declared he’s keeping Magnussen’s lands for himself, there are many nobles that believe marrying Sherlock is a good political move. Which, he supposes, is, at least as long as his brother doesn’t have any heirs of his own.

Now, if only he and John could get down to the _making babies of their own part-_

He’s not entirely sure he wants children, mind. He knows he’s biologically capable, but just because his body is a certain way, it doesn’t mean he feels comfortable with that. Then again, at this point, it might be the only way to avoid other type of complications and so-

The lesser evil and all that.

He rubs his temples tiredly. His body is just transport and for the most part of his life, he has told himself it doesn’t really matter. That particular mind frame worked on his favour while at Magnussen’s mercy, allowing him to divorce himself from his body and it’s many pains and humiliations. It hadn’t always worked, of course, but he does think that it made his stay slightly more bearable.

Now-

He honestly doesn’t know what he’d want if he was completely free of making his own choices. He knows he wants John, as he has always told him, but he’s not entirely sure of the particulars. And now that the older teen has said the 3 magic words-

Well. Everything else seems rather irrelevant. Love is, after all, a communion of souls and so if their bodies are to remain apart, it really doesn’t seem that important. Before, when he hadn’t been entirely sure of John’s feelings, he had been desperate for an inkling of something that resembled affection, but now-

Now he honestly doesn’t know what he wants.

Sadly, it’s not really completely his call. John might think they have all the time in the world, but he does know better. Despite the maids’ (mostly Janine’s actually) best attempts to spread the rumor widely (while making up the most ridiculous tales; some of them so _outrageous_ that they make Sherlock blush madly), he’s afraid his political station is still a bit too- tempting to be so easily dismissed.

He stands up and forces himself to make his way to the bathroom. He has a lot to think of and really, the quicker he manages to look through all his memories and starts working on putting the past in the past, the better.

For everyone involved, really.

* * *

 

For such a big house with so many people in it, Sherlock has always thought having a single bathroom is ridiculous, even if the bathtub there is big enough to host a whole family. Of course the servants have their own much more modest bathing room, but since John is staying with him at the house’s main wing-

Well.

His friend is completely oblivious to his presence, probably half asleep due the warm water. John isn’t used to any luxuries and while mostly _wary_ of his newfound situation, Sherlock understands there are things that are far too easy to get used to. So he’s not surprised of finding his friend taking advantage of the large bathtub, he’s just-

Well.

The thing is that while John has seen him in varying states of undress during the course of their acquaintance, he’s always seen John mostly dressed. Even at night, no matter how warm it might be, John insists on wearing clothes to bed, out of some strange sense of decency.

Sherlock’s imagination sometimes runs away from him, of course, but it’s not quite the same as being presented with the actual image.

He gulps, wondering if he ought to turn around and leave, pretending this never happened. It’s- silly getting this flustered, he thinks, because what exactly did he think was going to happen when he and John got intimate? Of course he was eventually going to see John naked and so this- this shouldn’t-

It’s just silly, isn’t it?

He nods to himself, quickly shedding his clothes before he loses his nerve. John is still half napping in the bathtub, eyes closed, humming contently to himself, only opening his eyes as he hears the splash on the other side of the bathtub when Sherlock slides in.

For a beat, neither of them moves, Sherlock’s heart beating entirely too fast for it to be normal. He feels a little lightheaded and he tells himself once more this is silly, but-

John simply smiles, closing his eyes once more, apparently perfectly content. Sherlock smiles despite his nervousness, his heart swelling with affection.

He keeps repeating himself he’s perfectly fine and ready for- more, but it’s in moments like this when he’s thankful of John’s repeated assurances that he’s perfectly fine with waiting. He doesn’t believe they have the time, but at the same time-

He’s scared.

He slides closer to his friend, the movement of the water making the older teen open his eyes once more. With a smile, he welcomes him in his arms, allowing Sherlock to curl close to him. It’s nice, being this close, although a little daunting considering there’s nothing separating their skin. John hums, running his fingers along his arm, gentle and loving, making Sherlock relax immediately.

For the longest time neither speak, simply enjoying the closeness and the warmth of the water. Sherlock lets his eyes close, his tiredness finally catching up with him. There are many things he feels he should be doing, many concerns that need addressing, but right now-

Right now none of that matters.

* * *

 

The sudden cold makes him open his eyes, looking around sleepily. He finds himself cradled in John’s arms, the older boy carefully stepping out of the bathtub, trying to wrap a towel around him without relishing his hold.

Sherlock hums questioningly and his friend offers him a smile, making him sit on the edge of the bathtub and finally succeeding on getting a towel around him. “The water had gotten cold,” he murmurs, grabbing a towel for himself. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

Sherlock hums once more, letting John pick him up once more. His body feels as if made of jelly, limbs refusing to cooperate and so making it impossible for him to stand on his own. John doesn’t seem to mind though, picking him up easily and so carrying him towards their rooms.

A couple of servants spot them on the hallway, but Sherlock couldn’t care less. In fact, it might be for the best: maybe it’ll help spread the gossip. He smiles at the thought, hiding his face in the crook of John’s neck, pressing his lips against the skin there very lightly.

John chuckles, but doesn’t comment, struggling a bit to open the door, but finally managing to push it open. He has trouble closing it though, so in the end he deposits Sherlock on the bed and goes back to lock them up.

He leans down on the bed, the towel slipping off him. He hears John’s intake of breath, but when he opens his eyes the other boy is pointedly busying himself with finding them clothing. Sherlock clears his throat, dragging his attention back to him.

He feels oddly light, his brain fuzzy with sleep and a sense of rightness. He pats the spot next to him on the bed and John hesitates for a beat, making him huff in annoyance. His friend chuckles once more, coming to lie down next to him, looking slightly wary, stubbornly keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s own.

That’s his John: always a gentleman, even when it’s frustratingly unnecessary.

He slides closer to him, so their bodies are pressed together, John’s towel the only piece of fabric between them. It’s somehow different than when they were at the bath, although it’s just as nice. Sherlock presses his lips tentatively against his friend’s, not putting much pressure, unsure of what he wants.

John kisses him back chastely, a hand cradling the back of his neck, hesitant. Sherlock smiles in what he hopes is an encouraging way, kissing him once more. From then on each kiss becomes a bit more certain and more heated, leaving them panting after a while. John pulls away a little, his arousal notable despite the bit of fabric covering him. Sherlock takes a deep breath, willing himself to think about his next move.

Finally, he pulls at John’s towel, encouraging him to discard it. John complies, discarding the item, but keeps a prudent distance between their bodies. Sherlock bites his lip, his eyes traveling down his friend’s body, attempting to keep a clear head while he observes the other.

He’s nervous, there’s no denying that, but he doesn’t think he’s terrified. His body aches with desire, but his mind is curiously blank. He’s not sure what he wants to do now, but-

John keeps his eyes fixed on him, not moving one inch, letting him take his time. His heart is beating frantically and he feels lightheaded, but not in a bad way. They don’t exchange a single word, but seem to come to a perfect understanding anyway, sharing another chaste kiss that slowly but surely builds up in intensity.

John is careful not to overwhelm him though, his hands gentle and letting him set the pace he’s comfortable with. He doesn’t urge him to do anything, perfectly content with letting Sherlock explore his body slowly and yet keeping his hands to himself unless Sherlock especifically states otherwise. It’s so much different from what he imagined; so different from their frantic encounter that night in the kitchen and yet-

Sherlock can feel the fire building inside him, threatening to overwhelm him. He wants more, but he’s not sure what exactly. He carefully climbs into John’s lap, straddling him and the other boy makes a noise that he would call “pained”, except John looks far from it.

It’s too much and yet it’s not enough. He’s never been in this position before and he has no idea of what to do. It’s frustrating and John seems determined not to help, probably out of some sense of chivalry, not wanting to press Sherlock into anything. Which is ridiculous, frankly and he just wants-

“John, please,” he pleads softly, although he has no idea what he’s asking for. He’s no stranger to sex, but this is different. He’s not used to being in control and his limbs feel clumsy. He’s used to stay perfectly still and let his body be used and abused, but this- this-

He’s shaking, he realizes, both from the effort of chasing his orgasm without having a clue of how exactly to do that and from the effort of keeping the memories at bay. It’s not the same and he keeps repeating it to himself, but-

He feels John’s hand slipping between them, carefully caressing him and he growls, a pressure building in his stomach. John is whispering something against his ear, now practically sitting up, one hand still caressing him, the other on the small of his back keeping their bodies pressed as closely together as possible without them actually being connected. It’s frightening, to an extent, but it feels so damn nice…

He cries out, his whole body shaking. He feels overly sensitive and he realizes he’s crying, but he can’t stop himself. John holds him close, whispering soothing nonsense, the hand on his back softly rubbing his spine.

For the longest time they remain like that, until the tremors finally abate and he comes to lie on his side, urging John to curl behind him. His friend presses a kiss against the top of his head and whispers an apology, but Sherlock hurries to shake his head.

It was overwhelming, yes.

But not necessarily in a bad way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh.  
> I have no words for this. As I’ve said before, I generally don’t attempt to fight my inspiration, letting the story go wherever I feel feels natural. As I said before, I’m worried I bite more than I can chew both with this story in general and with the last plot twist, but… I don’t know. I’m hoping it works, but I’m really nervous about it.  
> So… thoughts anyone? Does it feel organic to you? People react to trauma in many different ways, but I’m aiming for a sense of realism. I want it to make some sort of sense and not feel- overly optimistic. As if one could simply shake off years of trauma and move on as if nothing happened.  
> Let me know what you thought?  
> Thanks for reading!


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! The last chapter! I’m not sure if the ending feels a bit flat, but I did the best I could, although if there’s something you feel is missing, I would love to hear about it!  
> Thank you for reading so far and… enjoy?

“We’re going to be late if you keep that up.” 

There’s no answer coming from the bundle of sheets and John rolls his eyes good naturedly, finishing dressing. He’s in no particular hurry to get going himself, but he suspects Mycroft will be far from pleased if they arrive late.

Not that it’s something John cares about overly much, but he figures it’s only polite.

“You’re dressed,” Sherlock protests, his head peeking from beneath the sheets, eyes narrowed. His messy curls cover half of his face and John’s heart skips a beat at the sight, affection flooding his every pore. 

“We have a wedding to attend,” John points out gently. “Was I supposed to go naked?” he adds with a playful smile and Sherlock pouts, gesturing for him to come closer. Once he’s close enough, the younger teen pulls him towards the bed, so they’re lying next to each other.

“I don’t wanna go,” Sherlock protests petulantly, nuzzling the underside of his jaw, making John shiver. “I’d rather stay here with you. You don’t need clothes for that,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss against the side of his neck.

John sighs, running a hand down his friend’s spine. “Your brother won’t be pleased,” he murmurs softly.

Sherlock hums, snuggling closer. “He’s bound to be cranky anyway. I doubt he’ll even notice, actually.”

As tempting as the idea of staying is, John knows it’s not really an option. They need to make an appearance at the wedding, not only because Mycroft will be angry if not, but because-

“Come on, love,” he whispers, kissing his lover’s forehead. “You know we need to be there.”

Sherlock makes a displeased noise, but finally complies, sending one last glare in John’s direction in his way to the bathroom, making the older man smile fondly at him.

They have a long day ahead from them.

 

* * *

 

Although Mycroft had attempted to convince Sherlock to wear a dress to the wedding, the teen had determinedly put his foot down and refused to. John really can’t understand why Mycroft would even try, knowing how his  _ brother  _ hates wearing anything remotely feminine, but well… in the end, Sherlock had got his way and that’s all John cares for.

The clothes he’s wearing are flattering either way and the cut of the shirt is designed to accentuate his barely noticeable swelling belly. That particular development has John feeling torn, probably just as much as Sherlock himself feels. Things haven’t been easy between them and even now, a year and a half after their escape, he still wakes up more often than not to a sobbing Sherlock that panics when he attempts to hold him. It’s heartbreaking and nerve wracking, making him feel never quite sure if he’s doing the right thing. Sherlock still refuses to talk about it, insisting on dealing with things on his own and as much as that breaks John’s heart, he has decided not to press.

To be frank, half of the time he’s convinced _ now _ was not the time to pursue their relationship. But things being what they are, he also understands they didn’t truly have the time to take it slow. In the long run, he worries their so-called solution to their dilemma will be entirely too costly, but it’s not like they had many options anyway.

Sherlock stands in front of the mirror, fussing over his hair and John smiles, pushing his dark thoughts away. The timing might be far from perfect, but there’s no denying they’re in love with each other and so they make do to the best of their abilities. It’s challengingly and downright painful sometimes but-

They’re together and that’s all that really matters.

 

* * *

 

The curious and judgmental stares aren’t exactly easy to handle and John knows they’re taking a special toll on Sherlock, who tries to act confident and self assured, but it’s obvious (at least for him) that he’s quickly growing tired and despondent. It’s not a pleasant experience and that’s part of the reason he hadn’t been very keen on Mycroft’s plan, but well-

He supposes it was really the perfect opportunity to let the whole Kingdom know that Sherlock is, officially,  _ off the market _ .

It’s an horrid, not to mention ridiculous notion, but John has learned not to question nobles’ oddities. He supposes that when you have far too much free time in your hands you’re bound to come up with ridiculous concerns since you lack any actual day-to-day ones.

Sherlock presses himself closer to him and John wraps an arm around his waist, before kissing his cheek. Sherlock offers him a nervous smile, one of his hands tapping his abdomen nervously. John sighs, squeezing him tighter, trying to convey how sorry he is they have to go through this charade.

But it’s supposedly for the best.

 

* * *

 

The actual wedding ceremony is a surprising  _ simple  _ affair, with the bride and groom looking far from happy but quite resigned. Sherlock ignores everything his now sister-in-law says and Lady Adler (Lady Holmes now, John supposes) eventually gives up. In truth, John can’t understand why exactly she thinks Sherlock will be willing to actually have a civil conversation with her.

Of course he understands  _ why  _ she sell him out to Magnussen, but it’s not the sort of thing one can simply forgive and forget. In fact, John is quite baffled at the fact that Mycroft went ahead and married her, even after knowing what she had done to her little brother.

But then again, nobles have crazy ideas.

All things considered, John has never been more thankful of his poor background.

 

* * *

 

John isn’t sure if Sherlock wanted children at all, but he never quite could bring himself to ask. He’s not sure he could live with himself if the answer was “no” and so he decided to simply never bring the subject up.

He observes Sherlock’s prodding his belly and tells himself not to get overemotional. Sherlock has approached the whole pregnancy pragmatically, making sure to eat well and exercise as necessary, but John has no idea how he  _ feels _ about it. He supposes he’s nervous and perhaps a tad curious about the changes his body is going through, but if he’s even remotely happy is a bit of a mystery.

For his part, John isn’t sure how he feels either. He knows he loves Sherlock and he did want to have a family with him, but he wishes the circumstances could have been different. Then again, they’ve come a long way and so he supposes he really ought not to complain.

Still, he wishes things could be different.

He wishes they were truly free.

But then, it could always be worse.

 

* * *

 

“Dreadful affairs, weddings.” Sherlock murmurs as he undresses, looking frustrated. Something is bothering him and although John has a very good idea of what exactly is that, he doesn’t say anything. “Good thing we’ll never have to go through that nonsense.”

“Don’t you want to?” John questions lightly, taking off his formal clothes too and carefully putting them away, his back at Sherlock.

For the longest time, there’s no answer coming and John begins to worry. “You- you want to marry?” Sherlock asks very quietly and John turns to face him once more. His friend is frowning, looking more confused than displeased and John supposes that’s good enough. “Why? You already-” he blushes, gesturing vaguely and John can feel his own cheeks heating. “Why would you want that?”

John shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter to me, anyway,” he says, sitting on the bed and waiting for Sherlock to join him, although he doesn’t think that’ll be any time soon, considering the way the younger teen is looking at him. “But I love you. And I was under the impression that’s what people in love do. Well… regular people, that is.”

Sherlock continues staring at him, a mighty frown on his face and John wonders if he should have brought up the subject at all. Finally, Sherlock drops himself on the bed next to him, still looking confused. “You don’t have to,” he murmurs softly. “If this is some sort of- if you feel like-” he takes a deep breath, shaking his head. “As I’ve said endless times before John, you owe me nothing. And if you- that is- there’s no need-”

John sighs, pulling the other for a kiss that Sherlock has no trouble returning. When they finally pull away for air, John smiles lightly at him. “And I’ve told you before- I love you. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you and I’ve done nothing out of any sense of obligation, Sherlock. I just want to be with you and make you happy.”

There are tears shining in his friend’s eyes and he nods once, before kissing him again. “Maybe some day,” he murmurs softly, caressing the side of his face. “Right now- I- I don’t think-” Sherlock bites his lip, absentmindedly rubbing his belly. “There’s a lot going on. And I still have- there are many things I have to make my peace with.”

John nods, placing a hand over Sherlock’s, now both resting over his swollen abdomen. “I’m here for you, love. Whatever that might imply.”

The younger teen nods, eyes red rimmed. “I know and I- I love you too.”

Funny how the simple words can still steal his breath. John beams at his companion and kisses him once more, pulling him closer. “Let’s go to sleep. You had a hellish day.”

Sherlock chuckles, a bit bitterly and nods, curling next to him.

It certainly was a tiring day.

 

* * *

 

Healing is a process, a very slow one, full of good and bad days. There’s so much John wishes he could do for his friend, but there’s so little he actually can do. But he tries his best and hopes one day they’ll be fine enough.

They’ve come a long way after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?
> 
> I fear the ending feels a little out of the blue; while I certainly could have expanded on the recovery process a bit more, I just wasn’t sure how to go about it in a way that felt realistic. As it stands, I’m not sure if this feels overly simplistic. Thoughts on that?
> 
> As usual, it’s been a joy to work on this fic. It certainly was hard, nerve wracking and just downright  _ painful  _ at times, but overall, I’m happy with it. It was certainly interesting to work on something so out of my usual style, even if half of the times I was convinced I was messing up. If there’s something that’s particularly bothering you or that you think I should have handled differently or pay more attention to, please let me know! I love constructive criticism and I’m always open to suggestions.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
>  

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out! Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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